


BODY AND SOUL

by witchqueenofdarkness



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, Billie Lourd - Fandom, Cody fern - Fandom, Duncan Shepherd - Fandom, House of Cards (US TV), Millory - Fandom
Genre: F/M, cody fern x billie lourd, cody x billie, collie - Freeform, duckenzie, duncan and mackenzie shepherd, duncan shepherd x mackenzie stone, duncan x mackenzie, duncan x mallory, michael langdon x mallory - Freeform, michael x mallory, millory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-04-24 02:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19164112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchqueenofdarkness/pseuds/witchqueenofdarkness
Summary: One fated night, Duncan Shepherd, infamous sole heir of Shepherd Unlimited, is taking a brief reprieve from a penthouse party on a deserted balcony covered in roses. It’s there he first glimpses an angel in a little black velvet dress named Mackenzie Stone–an angel who will awaken the hidden depths of light deep within him, changing the course of his life forever. This is a story about Fate, the Divine Feminine, and the healing, cosmic power of true love: a love that spans eons of time and infinite universes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Original Notes:** _This is basically a Millory AU/Alternate Universe where Cody’s character Duncan from HOUSE OF CARDS meets a version of Mallory/Billie. I might eventually tie it into some kind of reincarnation arc/parallel AHS universe? Her name is Mackenzie Stone and I’ll illuminate more on who she is in time regarding her HoC character, but for all intents and purposes she is Mallory/Billie and Duncan is Michael/Cody. Part 1 is their fortuitous first night together. There is gonna be a LOT of smut in this fic, it’ll be some light plotty stuff but mostly them fucking on everything and looking super hot and dreaming about ripping each other’s clothes off in rooms full of important people. And a lot of stuff about their clothes. But mostly them touching each other with aching fingers and fucking. Please leave me feedback if you like it! Writing this was a big deal for me; it’s the longest bit of fiction I’ve written in a long time and the project will be the realization of an important goal for me this year._
> 
>  **AO3 Notes:** _I've spent the last four months of my life writing this fic and posting it on[Tumblr](https://witchqueenofdarkness.tumblr.com/post/182795802960/body-and-soul-masterpost-complete); it's the first piece of long fiction I've written since I was in my late teens, and it's a project that has changed my life utterly--I not only proved to myself that I'm more than capable of writing fiction, I changed my diet entirely and when I finished this I broke up with my partner of 7.5 years. Real love is out there. Not just the friendship kind. The body and soul kind. Come along with me. Duckenzie forever._

_I send my soul through time and space. To greet you. You will understand._

_\--_ James Elroy Flecker, from _T _o A Poet A Thousand Years Hence,__ 1910. _ _  
__

 

_Love can be scary; not because of heartbreak or being left, but because it can consume you all at once. It’ll spread in your veins like the poison of a snake; it’s unstoppable and only when it’s too late, you’ll find yourself drowning in it. It’ll intrude your daily life, step by step until you find that love is everywhere you may go or look or even listen to. It’ll haunt you at night; in the morning; every time of the day, there’s no escape. Love will make you fear the person that has sparked this mess inside of you; overwhelming you with waves of emotions which will bring you to your knees. But in all of this, you’ll recognize the sensation of happiness, you’ll love the weakness and inability to control it. At some point you’ll crave it so much, that you’ll face your fear and walk to the other side of it - right into the arms of your loved one. And that’s when you know; love is just a hurricane that demands for you to face your fears._

_\--_ s.m.

_The other morning I heard a woman on the radio describe her art, enormous conceptual installations that involve manipulations of breath and light. As she was explaining her process, this artist used a phrase I'd never heard before: "thin places." It's a Celtic concept, one that stems from an old proverb that says, "Heaven and earth are only three feet apart, but in the thin places that distance is even smaller." In thin places, the folklore goes, the barrier between the physical world and the spiritual world wears thin and becomes porous. Invisible things, like music or love or dead people or God, might become visible there, or if they don't become visible they become so present and tangible that is doesn't matter. Distinctions between you and not-you, real and unreal, worldly and otherworldly, fall away._

_The original thin places were wild landscapes because the idea was born in the heaths of Connemara, a place that's so austere and ancient, so full of twists and hiding places and divots a thousand years old, that it seems somehow likely you might poke a hole through to another reality. But the radio lady said that the delight of thin places was the unpredictability of their location. You can find them someplace with magic written all over it, like Connemara or the Himalayas, but they also pop up in dive bars, bedrooms, hospital rooms. They can appear and disappear._

_\--Thin Places,_ Jordan Kisner.

 

Duncan let the wine glass hang limply from between the crook of his fingers. Even drinking felt boring among these dull people. He stared off into the night, leaning on the ledge, imagining dropping the glass down onto the head of an unsuspecting suit below as a bored smile played at the edges of his mouth, the cool early-summer air ruffling the halo of his curls. He didn’t know it, but his blue eyes appeared much darker than usual in the glow of the soft, round lights that lined the opulent deck. Roses adorned the balcony; row after row of dark red, richly in bloom, almost obscene in their beauty, defiantly organic, thrown against the careful architecture of a DC penthouse. They were, thus far, the only interesting thing here.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he muttered, sighing and pulling one long-fingered hand through his hair, absently straightening his already perfectly pressed, perfectly tailored black blazer as the hand fell downward. One more hour and he could leave; he stared at his silver Cartier watch absently; his mother had insisted he make an appearance here for the benefit of several wealthy donors to the Foundation (“just let them stare at you for awhile, you know how people love to do that, reel them in,” she said with a dry smile, and he nodded at her, smiling in return, ever the obedient son), but she hadn’t said he need stay for the whole party, after all. Showing up, killing time for a few hours should do the work she wanted, and he’d already made nice with those in the room he recognized from charity balls and fundraisers and galas past. Now the long, slow clock-watch until 11 PM, when he could make a stylishly early exit.

He was lost in these thoughts of escape and duty, still staring out at the glittering affectation of the capital city, when someone gazing similarly into the night caught the corner of his eye. 

It was the hair first; then her expression. Chestnut-honey waves cascaded down her back; a small band of gold adorned with six-pointed stars nestled into them against her head, giving her a strangely angelic glow in the dim light, the idea of a halo. She was small--she couldn’t be any taller than his shoulders--and that only with strappy, stiletto-heeled black sandals, twisting up her slender, smooth leg above her ankles, tied neatly in double-knots, at that.  _Double knots_ , he thought absently,  _I tie my shoes that way too_. He blinked, eyes traveling up, falling on the black velvet babydoll dress she wore, bodice hugging her slender waist and small breasts, hiding the curves of her hips-- _I wonder what they look like_ , he wondered again absently, surprising himself with his immediate interest--up further to the incline of her neck and the dip of her clavicle, adorned with a gold circle that had several chunks of quartz crystals shaped into points along her smooth skin.  _What a beautiful piece_ , he thought.  _So unique_. He felt an uncharacteristic tremor in his composure; and then he looked at her face. Her features were small and delicate; her lips slim and colored with a dark red that reminded him of the roses she was leaning against, brushed into her cheeks a soft blush that reminded him of evening sunlight on sand. Her eyes were darkly shadowed, long lashes framing wide hazel eyes that glinted with a strange combination of innocence and wisdom that startled him. On her wrist was another slender gold thing, an intricate woven cage of criss-crossing artistry that fell down her arm as she lifted her graceful hand and pushed an escaping wave of hair behind her ear; tiny crystal points hung from her ears. She grasped a small black clutch in her other hand (her nails were unpainted, he noticed, a rarity in DC society) and her face seemed lost, angry, sad, and bored at once, her small mouth pouting in a silent, secret disappointment, her lips parting to release an almost inaudible sigh as she absently touched the crystals around her throat. As his darkened blue eyes watched her, their glowing fascination invisible and unrealized yet to him, she finally seemed to notice she was not alone; her wide eyes traveled over the cascade of city lights, down through the roses, and into his.

He felt as though time stopped for a moment; how long the moment extended he could never be sure later, but it felt like a blink and an eon at once, as though something vast and previously immovable had fallen into its long-sought place. Her eyes were even more mesmerizing now that they were locked on him; he felt an obscure ache in anticipation of the moment she must inevitably look away.

“Hi,” he said quietly, and he couldn’t help but smile; he knew it had a strange effect on some people when he smiled, but it was almost involuntary; looking at her was a hand around his heart that had begun to press insistently, and he felt his cheeks burning; his jacket suddenly seemed too tight and he felt odd, dizzy, almost giddy; looking at her.

“Um, hi.” He saw the cloud fall over her gaze; she recognized him. He silently cursed in his mind, biting the inside of his cheek, a habit he’d acquired from a lifetime of being Annette Shepherd’s son. Maybe this was not going to go as well as he’d already begun to hope. He saw the way her head shifted, her mouth turning down at one corner, her hand coming around the opposite arm, hugging herself in a seemingly absent-minded impulse. Hugging herself away from  _Duncan Shepherd_ , notorious, infamous; but maybe also from the cool breeze that blew over them, smelling of roses and woodsmoke.

“I’m Duncan.”

“I know who you are.”

He smiled again at that; “Oh? And what have you heard?”

“Plenty. More than enough to know I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

He unleashed a light laugh at that; something about this petite, gold-adorned creature was absolutely intoxicating, as if she was touching him without any physical contact, whispering in his ear while she was speaking in a normal tone of voice. There was something else going on here; there was some kind of hidden current, he could feel it, like an electrical charge. It extended from the hot core of his belly to the blush of her, the sunset-gold of her. He’d only had one and a half glasses of wine, but he felt suddenly drunk. He longed to know what she smelled like, but she was still too far away. For a moment, he imagined what it would be like to run his hand along the skin of her bare arm; around the incline of her throat. His cheeks burned.

“I promise, I’m not that bad.”

She rolled her eyes at him and he couldn’t help it; he laughed a little again. He could see her steely introduction melt ever-so-slightly this time, her eyelashes fluttering down, the corner of her mouth turning up the tiniest bit, her lips pressing together to stifle her own smile. Her arms relaxed, coming to rest on the edge of the balcony once more.

He chanced to step toward her; she seemed hesitant, but she let him, watching him warily, the wind gently kissing her hair, fluttering the hem of her short dress; it was everything he could not to not look at the smooth skin of her thigh where it ended. He absently hooked a finger around his high, buttoned collar, feeling his throat clench in a second of uncharacteristic nervousness, the wine glass in his other hand mostly forgotten. He watched her eyes travel up and down his tall form; they stopped for a moment on his russet-brown curls, skirted around his intense eyes, flicked to his full lips with an embarrassed interest, to his adams apple and his tailored jacket and down his body, flitting to his tailored slacks (an ever-so-slight pause, almost unnoticeable,  over his crotch) and Prada leather chelsea boots. She inclined her head, shyly, and despite her hesitancy, he could see her interest, her attraction, glowing under her skin like a light.

“I’d love to know your name. I promise, I won’t tell anyone,” he smiled at her again, knowingly acknowledging that they were both out here for a reason while the party raged inside--these people were awful--and his own proclivity to use DC socialites to his and his family’s advantage.

He saw her hesitate again, one small hand coming up to hold a tendril of her long chestnut hair, twisting it between two fingers, smoothing her lips together as though her lipstick weren’t already perfectly applied. He watched her swallow, lost in some silent internal struggle, for a moment.

“Mackenzie,” she said, leaning away from the balcony. He was only a few steps away from her now: he could smell the wave of scent coming off her, as delicate as the intricate gold jewelry she wore: vetiver (a scent he loved and would recognize anywhere, he thought with a thrill) and something else, a delicate flower more complex than the roses, and rarer. _Geranium?_  He thought.  _How unique. Who is this angel?_

“No last name?” He grinned at her, knowingly. “Or one you won’t tell me for a reason?”

“I’m an orphan, they found me on the doorstep of a church,” she replied, grinning back, and he found himself goggling at her loveliness, and the pressing feeling around his heart doubled down to an almost painful ache. “Oh, really?” He laughed again, dizzily, staring into her eyes. “I guess I can pretend I believe that for now. Sometimes it’s nice to play anonymous, I wish I could do it; in a city as tightly-knit as this one is, anonymity has eluded me.”

“I’m sure that happened to you through no fault of your own,” she replied in a biting tone, but he could see her smile, the rosy glow of her cheeks. And he knew that she liked him, or at least, liked the look of him. Duncan knew that he was objectively attractive; he had felt the hungry gazes of men and women alike hundreds of times before, but something about this woman, her eyes, her hair, her gold, her light, was filling him with an intensity of desire that felt like warm water running over the edge of a glass; his nerves felt like they were vibrating, his skin felt flushed, and he knew what he wanted with a sharp clarity; he wanted this girl. Badly. She was the most beautiful, the most luminous, the most intoxicating being he had ever seen.

A small silence stretched between them; he ached to know what she was thinking, for now she stared at him with a boldness she seemed to have sussed from his obvious interest in her; the exposed feeling settling under his skin was intensely foreign to him, and it made him wildly nervous. The fear that she’d disappear at any moment began to press at his temples; he felt unhinged, that he would do anything to get this girl, this _angel_ , into his bed.

“...May I get you a drink?” He murmured to her, the aching edge in his voice taking him by surprise. His throat bobbed; he extended the fingers of his right hand slowly, almost unknowingly, towards the smooth skin of her arm. But he did not touch her. The air seemed to hum around them, a frequency of sound that was almost visible; he felt that they were somehow touching each other without touching, feeling each other somehow without any physical contact. The wind blew softly again, filling his senses with her smell, intoxicating and delicate. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss her, gazing at her lips.

She regarded him for another long moment; he could see her hesitation, no doubt kindled by a dozen or more  _Post_  articles about his family. But then something in her gaze shifted inexplicably, softened, opened, and she smiled again, dazzling him. A barrier seemed to have been breached; her eyes shimmered, and he felt the heat from them pierce into his heart.  

“You may.”

He’d feverishly gone to the bar ( _bourbon_ , she’d said, shaking his heart again with desire), skirting around the attentions of a Senator who tried to speak with him, anxiously watched the bartender crush together the ingredients of two old fashioneds, the fear that she would no longer be leaning against the roses when he returned shaking his confidence with an icy grip, but as he slipped out onto the otherwise-deserted balcony once more, his body flooded with an intoxicating dose of relieved dopamine; there she was still, turning toward him with that glow, stepping against him slightly as she pulled the tumbler from his elegant, large hand with her finespun fingers, and he shivered at the first touch between them, filled with an overwhelming lust for more. He reached out with the other glass and clinked it against hers.

“To the mystery of first meetings,” he said impulsively.

“To familiar strangers,” she replied, and something about her words shook him strangely, coiling around them, loaded and full of hidden meaning. They both drank; Duncan watched her from the rim of his glass, taking a deep gulp of the whiskey to calm his buzzing nerves; she closed her darkly shadowed eyes, sipped, and when they fluttered open again, he noticed the lust that had settled in behind them for the first time.

“I’m sure people tell you this all the time,” she said, her voice soft and hazy in his ears, “but you’re very handsome in person.”

“Some do,” he said, stepping into her space, achingly close, watching her reaction; she did not move away from him, but stood very still, resting the drink against the wide ledge of the balcony, eyes focused on his face. “But rarely is it someone as beautiful as you are.” He set his drink down beside hers, the bourbon humming against his skin; being this close to her felt almost unbearable in its intensity. She tilted her head up, waves falling back, the crystals around her neck glinting in the glow of the fairy lights. Her face came only to the incline of his chest; perfectly level with the space in which his hands hovered for the throe of a moment before he could no longer resist temptation; he moved them so they came to rest against her small face on either side, in the delicate spaces between her chin and her ear with an imploring softness. He looked into her eyes for a moment, questioning; and he saw the lust there again, saw that she desired him too, and that was all he needed; he tilted his face and his lips fell on hers, hungry, starving, immediate.

The eagerness with which she returned his kiss filled the pit of his stomach with a wild ardency; he could taste the whiskey on her lips, smell her richness, the ache of her perfume and the musky scent of her body, and he wanted her with a desperation that felt like madness in the corners of his mind. She opened her mouth more to him; he kissed her more deeply, his tongue brushing against hers, his fingers stretching out to feel the delicate skin of her neck, moving there to caress her, causing a small moan to escape her that drove him absolutely to the edge. She was pressed against him now, her small hands flitting down his chest and stomach, causing warmth to pool in his cock immediately in anticipation and want; he felt he could drink her in forever and still not have enough, he wanted the scent of her all over him, wanted to feel her against him without the barriers of her velvet dress and his silk shirt, her skin on his skin everywhere. The kiss kindled in him a fire that burst into a blaze; the soft insistence of her lips was the first page of the book of her, and he wanted to read all of it; he wanted to devour her until morning tinged the sky.

They broke the kiss breathlessly, both breathing heavily, their faces still achingly close, and his hands were moving down across the skin above her small breasts under their velvet trappings, further down, around their round incline to the top of her waist where he grasped her under her arms, fervently, his fingers pressing into her insistently, holding her there, her warmth and weight and scent hovering around him like a crown encircling his head.

“Come to my apartment with me,” he whispered. She leaned into him, her lips falling on his again, and he shivered into her mouth, his composure fracturing, his red and burning lust falling into her and crashing against her. His strong hands held her there, in that delicate space under her breasts, and her head reached up to meet his full lips, tasting insistently. He felt as though she were weaving a spell into him, tying him to her with an invisible thread, touching a hidden place in his soul that he hadn’t even known was there. “ _Please_.”

He felt her smile into his mouth; felt her small hands reach up to his face, trailing along the stubble that lined his chiseled jaw, pulling him down to her; “... _yes_ ”, she whispered into him, and he couldn’t stop himself, he laughed quietly into her again, delighted, full of desirous joy. He pulled away from her reluctantly, only to grasp the tumbler of bourbon and gulp from it again; he needed just a little more courage, just enough to make it back to the penthouse with this vision he feared would disappear in a flash of gold; she looked at him with eyes shining with excitement and perhaps the tiniest tinge of trepidation, grasping and drinking deeply from her own glass, and the edge of that feeling he wanted to erase; he longed to reassure her, hoped wildly that he could soothe her.

He grasped her small hand in his large one, intoxicated by the way they fit against each other, and led her, insistently but carefully, to the side of the balcony that led to a side-door to the stairwell leading to the street; a mutual desire seemed to pass between them to avoid any of the other guests seeing them leave together, and he laced his fingers through hers tightly, helping her down the two flights, stopping briefly as she pushed him against the cement wall, hurriedly kissing him again, capturing his bottom lip in her teeth gently, and he clutched her against him, moaning into her, his hands falling to the small of her back, one sliding against the velvet of her skirt, feeling the rise of her small, round ass through the fabric, igniting new desire in his groin and his head. God, he wanted her. He wanted her so fucking bad. She giggled into him, and the bourbon clashed against him with a short wave; he buried a hand in her golden-tawny hair, marveling at its silky cascade through his fingers.

“Come on,” he insisted, and they were finally at the bottom of the stairs, and he pulled his phone from his back pocket, absently using his free hand to call an Uber Black; the sidewalk outside was miraculously and mercifully almost empty of people besides a woman walking a dog across the street and a few cars passing by, headlights flashing momentarily before they moved on. Mackenzie--god, he loved her name,  _Mackenzie_ \--leaned into him again, small hands on his belt, filling him with her scent and her closeness and her heat, and he wanted to push her into the wall and kiss her and touch every inch of her until she was breathlessly shaking with the edge of climax.

Their car pulled up with an almost supernatural quickness and quietness; the driver quickly forgotten as they pressed once more into one another in the backseat, Duncan snaking a hand around her neck to pull her against his mouth, her hand flitting over his cock, now painfully confined in his tailored crotch. “ _Oh god, Mackenzie_ ,” he murmured into her, his other hand falling around the soft rise of her breast, gentle and insistent, “ _I want you so much_.”

“ _God, shut up, just kiss me_ ,” she laughed. He couldn’t help but laugh again with her; when was the last time he’d laughed like this? Laughed at all? He knew somehow it wasn’t just the bourbon making him light-headed. She had appeared out of nowhere and nothing, absolutely intoxicating, as though she were a being from another world. She was astounding; he was absolutely drunk on her.

They broke apart with loathe urgency as the driver pulled up to Duncan’s Georgetown high rise, and the blur of the next few minutes ran into an accelerated mix of running paint in Duncan’s mind when he looked back on it; they were in the elevator where he could see her tender mouth against him in the full-length mirror that made up one of the walls, her tiny body pressed against him, her hair falling in a glow, and it made his cock throb. The doors fell open and her pulled her fingers into his again, leading her gently down the hall to the tall black door of his penthouse apartment, fumbling with his keycard; her hand wrapped around his, steadying it, her lips pressing into his neck with a tenderness that made him groan, and they fell inside. Thankfully he’d left one lamp on by the slender leather couch; the better to see her by; the better to lead her into his bed. He picked her up--she was light as a feather and as soft as one too--and pressed her against the back of the door that had swung shut behind them, his mouth urgent on hers again; “you know--” she said breathlessly between his lips crashing against hers--”I don’t usually do stuff like this--”

“I’ll take that as a compliment--” he smiled into her, his hands winding up the skin of her thigh, pressing her down to the ground again, pressing ever-so-briefly against the softness between her legs, making her gasp. She dropped her clutch unceremoniously on the spotlessly clean polished wood; reached down to unknot her shoes in a marvelously cute almost absent-minded gesture, a wonderful, frustrated whine escaping from her mouth as she fumbled with them. “Here, let me help,” he murmured, and he knelt before her--his hands fell down the softness of her leg to the knot, and he felt her shudder with desire under his touch. He loved the way he was suddenly looking up at her from here, suddenly beholden to her whim; he wanted to make her feel fucking good, he wanted her to writhe with pleasure. He unknotted the laces of the sandal, freeing her small foot, thumbing the red stripes they had left on her ankles; he couldn’t stop himself, he pressed his lips against the redness, and felt her shiver under his touch again, breathlessly.

He undid her other heel easily; as she stepped out of them, he saw that she was even smaller, reaching only right about level to his chest; he wanted to hold her small frame against him with desperate longing. She reached out, pushing his blazer from his shoulders insistently, their swollen lips coming together again; “ _god, you taste so good_ ,” he whispered into her, “you’re so beautiful,  _you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen_ \--”

She shushed him again, her breath humming on his lips, as if she was afraid of his words. “Take me to your room,” she insisted. He nodded, sure that he would do anything she said in that moment, her eyes so intense, dark and wonderful that he felt he could see into her soul through them, and pulled her into his bedroom, its black sheets and spread perfectly pressed and quiet, waiting for them. The side-lamp on his pristine nightstand was dimly lit; its glow cascaded over her, striking him with her loveliness once more; he pressed against her desperately, pulling the headband of stars gently from her head and setting it on the nightstand with reverence next to his exorbitantly expensive watch, kicking his shoes off as he clutched at her, once more filled with a terrible fear that she would disappear, eager beyond all words to be against her.

“ _Duncan_ ,” she moaned into his mouth, “ _fuck me_.”

He needed no more prompting; he pressed her gently but insistently down onto the immaculate spread, and she opened her legs, sidling their bareness against his clothed thigh; he pressed his lips into the softness of her neck as her fingers found the buttons of his high-collared shirt, undoing them expertly, freeing his torso from the suffocating confines; then they moved to his belt as she moaned under his mouth, his lips grazing the crystals that hugged her throat, pressing into the hollow between her breasts above the velvet of her neckline. She pulled his belt away with a snap; he flipped her over with concentration, and she gasped, the sound of it thrilling him so his cock pressed harder against his pants, painfully.

He carefully pulled the zipper at her back down, his mouth pressing between her shoulder blades now, grasping the cascade of her hair to the side so as not to get it caught; his hands went to undo her necklace’s clasp, but she murmured “ _no, I want to wear it while we fuck_ ,” and the thought of it thrilled him; it seemed only natural that she’d wear it, it seemed intense beyond a normal object, cut against her like a second skin, a miraculous piece of jewelry that hummed with eroticism. He pulled at her dress; she flipped over with an agile sweetness as he did, slipping out of it, laying on her back so her breasts were now exposed to him, wearing only a pair of silk black underwear now, and he hungrily captured one of her nipples in his lips, sucking hungrily. She moaned again, this time more loudly; who was there to hear them now, indeed, and he groaned happily into her body, intoxicated with it. He leaned up once more to undo the button and zipper of his pants; as he kicked them off, he watched her hazy eyes, bright with lust, lave over the bulge of his erection under his black briefs; “ _take those off too_ ,” she murmured teasingly, her playful smile driving him to the edge of desire again, and he obediently pulled them down, grinning at her, his cock springing out and causing a bubble of surprise to fall out of her mouth;  “ _god, you’re fucking big_ ,” she murmured, and pulled his long frame down to her insistently. His mouth was all over her now, moving down her ribs and belly button to where the black silk panties clung to her, wet with her desire now, and with his large hands he pulled them down and threw them to the side. Her sex was glittering with moisture and her pussy was smooth, hair shaved away; he pressed one long finger between her folds to the bundle of nerves he knew was nestled there, and she moaned again, this time long and loud and stretching into a groan of ecstasy.

He pushed her legs apart insistently and pressed a hard lick against her clit; she cried out with an involuntary spasm of pleasure, and he smiled with desire. “God, you taste good,” he moaned, before pressing his mouth flush against her, working his tongue into her with measured circles; but their eyes, his stormy blue with want, hers taking on an ethereal dark-green hue that both shook and amazed him, stared into one another as he did, and he could see the way she was unraveling in his fingers, his mouth filling her up and bringing her dangerously close to the edge. “I don’t want you to come yet,” he whispered, stopping, watching her body clench under him with the lack of his mouth, “I want to fuck you and I want us to come together, god, you’re so beautiful,” and she nodded and whispered “yes,” and hushed him with her mouth, the taste of her mingling in their mouths, her hand finding his painfully erect cock and using the precum that dripped from its head to smooth her hand up and down his shaft, rattling him into a wanton thirst to be inside her.

“Do you want me to?” He asked, gazing into her face, her cheeks flushed with cupidity, her body hot under his hands. He couldn’t believe she was here in his bed; he gazed at the crystals against her neck, against her ears, into her eyes, fluttering as they looked at him, god, she was so lovely, she made his heart quiver; she made him want to die.

“Yes, Duncan--fuck me.”

He moved and he was between her legs--he paused for one deep moment, the head of his painfully hard cock against her cunt, and then he pressed himself into her as his mouth pressed into her bruised lips again, one hand grasping her neck, the other grasping her hip, and they gasped into each other, the intensity of this connection overwhelming them both in a cascade of sensation. He moved, a rhythm building in his hips and his groin, and she cried out--” _Duncan, fuck, Duncan, oh fuck, yes, fuck me hard, like that_ \--” and he pulled her against him, their bodies flush against each other, sweat mingling, the scent of their sex and their perfume (his like smoke and cedar wood, hers heady and sweet) crashing together--he moved, pulling her upright onto him so her ass smacked against his knees and the hard length of his cock crashed into her again and again, her clit rubbing against his abdomen, her eyes rolling back in her head, his mouth leaving red welts on her perfect neck, her hair falling back and glittering in the light. She kissed him, grasping his stubble in her small fingers, kissed his forehead as he buried himself inside her, causing small entreating words to fall from his lips like a prayer, like a spell, a mantra; “ _Mackenzie, Mackenzie, Mackenzie, please, oh god, god_ \--”

He felt his climax rushing forward, a wave that he wasn’t sure he could stop if he tried, and she moaned into him--” _Oh god, Duncan, I’m gonna come, keep doing that, just like that-_ -” And as she cried out in wild delight a moment later, her cunt convulsing down onto him, he exploded into her, buried inside her warmth, grasping her against him as though he could never bear to let go; the sweat on his brow mixing into the sweat that pooled at her throat, and his cock shuddered its release deep into her, pulsing and falling into tenderness and still very hard. They stayed that way awhile; panting, spent, holding each other, pressing soft kisses into each other’s flushed skin, his length still inside her, her cunt dripping down onto him, still pulsing.

She laughed, suddenly, gasping, and it thrilled his heart to hear it; “Wow, fuck,  _fuck_.”

“Mackenzie.  _Fuck_.”

“Duncan. Hi.” She laughed again. He nuzzled his face into her neck. She lifted her hips and his cock fell out of her, going limp after his release, a small bit of white cum dribbling out. They both collapsed beside each other, chests still heaving, hands absently entwining with each other. He turned his head to her; his was just a little below her, under the incline of her arm, and she smiled down at him, and her smile was unbearably lovely; he could see the beauty that was hidden from him and the outside world shining from her eyes, still clouded with her climax, and knew in that moment that she was going to be someone special to him; he just knew, like the clashing sound of a giant gong resounding into the universe, like a shooting star that only he could see.

“That was incredible. You’re fucking incredible.”

She shyly pressed a hand against his cheek and he turned his face to kiss her palm; she turned towards him, sidling her legs together with a overwhelmed sigh as her still-sensitive sex pressed against her thighs.

“You’re pretty incredible yourself. And fuck, this penthouse. This is insane. Your cock is just...gorgeous. You’re gorgeous.” She blushed, locks of wavy hair falling over her shoulder against her breasts. Their hands still pressed into each other, feeling each other’s fingers softly, feeling each other’s veins, wrists, the soft pads of each other’s fingerprints. “But I meant what I said. I...I really don’t usually do stuff like this. This is....really unexpected.”

“I know what you mean. Mackenzie, you’re…” His eyes fluttered; he realized with a wave of intensity how tired he was, how much their fucking had exhausted him, body and soul.

“Mackenzie.”

She yawned; he wanted to grasp her to him, cradle her in his arms. He couldn’t understand what was happening; he wanted them to fall asleep together. That’s all he knew, all he could decipher. He wanted her to sleep in his bed until the sunrise kissed it and blessed them.

“Hmm?” Her eyes had fluttered closed, a small smear of eyeshadow, mussed in their passion, streaking away across her temple. He pressed the pad of his thumb there, wiping it away.

“Stay here with me tonight. Please?”

Her eyes fluttered open for just a moment; he was astonished to find he could still see that strange, hidden something still nestled inside them. That secret thing that seemed to be only for him. And then she said “ _okay_ ”.

He pulled the coverlet over them so it was folded over the sheets; he couldn’t bear to disturb her again as her eyes fell closed once more and her breathing slowed to a soft whisper. He soon fell asleep himself, their hands still clasped together, her small, slender fingers entwined in his large, long ones. And the moon rose over them in the window, and the night fell away. Slowly, as they slept there together, a deep sleep that neither had experienced in a very long time, dawn came.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _One fated night, Duncan Shepherd, infamous sole heir of Shepherd Unlimited, is taking a brief reprieve from a penthouse party on a deserted balcony covered in roses. It’s there he first glimpses an angel in a little black velvet dress named Mackenzie Stone–an angel who will awaken the hidden depths of light deep within him, changing the course of his life forever. This is a story about Fate, the Divine Feminine, and the healing, cosmic power of true love: a love that spans eons of time and infinite universes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Original Notes:** _Y’ALL, oh my GOD, the feedback I’ve gotten on Part 1 is overwhelming! A special thanks to @impiorumrequies, @-animalcrackers, @mesmerized-by-mystery, @nat-de-lioncourt and @amanda-d0000 for your particularly touching comments to me. I feel really inspired by this fic; I think I’ve hit the nail on the head here and it’s just pouring out of me. I hope to work on the next part this coming week; I’ll be in NYC over the weekend so I won’t have time for Part 3 until we get back. In the meantime, enjoy Part 2: there’s shower sex and the revelation of Mackenzie’s identity and gratuitous descriptions of Duncan’s opulent penthouse. By the way, Mackenzie’s friend “Claire” is an AU version of Coco, and she’ll show up again later._
> 
>  **AO3 Notes:** _Oh that sweet summer child in my original comments. She knew nothing of how this story was going to change her. She also didn't know that Claire, the Coco/Leslie AU, was the first of many AHS AUs to appear in this story. I still really like this chapter, for what it's worth._

Mackenzie’s eye fluttered open; she could feel sunlight, white and warm, falling on her face, but she did not know where she was for a moment. For a long moment. Her hazy eyes, the sleep still stuck to them like a film, slowly focused; and then she saw him, eyes still closed, lashes against his cheeks, curls falling across the black sheet under his head. He looked like a painting; his impossibly chiseled jaw with its dappled stubble, his straight nose and full lips, slow breath coming from his body in a sigh. Like a drawing by Da Vinci, an angel on the roof of the Sistine painted in loving strokes by Michelangelo. She didn’t dare even breathe for a moment, a wild wish bubbling up inside her that this moment could continue, unbroken, forever, and she could gaze at him this way, secretly, into the eons of time. She took the moment and resolved to bottle it in her secret heart always. This moment, looking at him in his innocence, seizing on her soul with a destined weight. Here she was, in Duncan Shepherd’s bed, and last night had not been a dream.

He was so beautiful; she hadn’t been dreaming. She could feel her nakedness under the duvet; she hadn’t been dreaming. She could see his soft naked chest rising slowly, feel his long fingers twined into hers between them; she hadn’t been dreaming, hadn’t dreamt it all, hadn’t imagined it, hadn’t invented it. Her heart quaked. Oh, no. Oh,  _yes_. Oh god.  _Fuck_.

And then he was stirring, and his eyes opened; she hadn’t dreamt those either, gray-blue like the storm crashing into a summer sky; brimming with an intensity of emotion and intelligence she felt weak under. He gazed at her for a long moment, and she met his gaze, though she felt she wanted to look away under their intensity; wondered how much her makeup had smeared in the night as she slept the sleep of the dead, but then he smiled at her,  _god what a smile_ , like Eros come down from his heavenly orb to whisper love poems into the ears of mortals, it wasn’t even fucking fair that he looked like this so early in the morning, it was practically obscene. Fucking hell.

“So, I didn’t dream you after all,” he whispered, and her blood suddenly felt hot and smooth and her head tingled and his squeezed her fingers gently, and she felt the pad of his thumb slide suggestively over the low center of the palm of her hand, and her sex throbbed for a moment, involuntarily. “You’re real.”

She smiled at him in return, though she suddenly felt terrified;  _I’m in Duncan Shepherd’s bed_ , she thought again, this time with a cold chill imagining the look on her mother’s face if she knew,  _Duncan Shepherd’s bed and I fucked him last night, fuck did I fucking fuck him, oh fuck_ \--

He sat up and leaned over her in one fluid motion, his other hand, the one not still wrapped around hers, caressing the side of her cheek as he was suddenly hovering over her, the sunlight falling across his curls and impossibly beautiful face. “Mackenzie…” he whispered. He seemed to lose his train of thought, trailing off into an open-mouthed silence, and he leaned down and her mind went blank, washed of thoughts of fear or her mother or her makeup, as his lips fell on hers, soft and warm and damp. God, he could fucking kiss. Her lips still felt bruised from their passionate kisses from the night before, but she couldn’t help it; she wanted more. His kiss deepened, and his hand fell down the side of her jaw to her neck, its weight there thrilling her nerves.  _I bet he could choke the life out of me in a minute_ , she thought wildly, nervously, abruptly; but his hand was so soft and so gentle, reverent, almost, and a part of her wanted him to press his hands roughly to her neck, tight and possessive, while he pressed his body against her with urgency. This man-- _the_  fucking Duncan Shepherd--made her body sing, made her senses feel like they were going to explode like a popped electrical outlet, made her want to do things she had never tried. And he didn’t even know her last name.

“God, I want you again--” he purred into her mouth, and she thought,  _fuck it, this might be the last time_ \--and she said “fuck, I want you too--” because it was true. At that, he moved the hand on her neck swiftly down between her legs, where moisture still gathered from the night before, his long fingers ( _god those fingers_ ) languidly pressed against her clit for a moment (she whimpered, she couldn’t stop it) and then soothed themselves (one, then two) inside her cunt, moving them slowly, kindling her need. His lips found one of her nipples again, sucking insistently, and she could feel the hard, needy length of his morning cock against her leg. He stopped the work of his fingers inside her and his mouth on her breast for a moment, the expression in his eyes, staring at her, a strange one of wonder that scared her a little. How the fuck was Duncan Shepherd looking at her this way, like she was an ethereal fairy or a princess in a fairy tale or,  _fuck_ , Aphrodite? It made her feel faint, her head swimming. She never wanted him to stop.

“Take a shower with me,” he whispered, his face close to hers, hovering over her mouth so she could feel the softness of his breath brushing against her lips. A curl fell over his forehead and his hands were under her small breasts, caressing the delicate bumps of her ribcage.  _He could snap me in half, god, I’d let him_ , she thought, past the point of all apprehension and judgement. “Okay,” she hummed, and god, that made him smile; _fuck, what I’d do to see that smile every day_ , she thought in a haze.  _Feed that to me for breakfast_.

“Come on,” he said, raising himself off her, his thick cock standing to attention, making her stifle a snort of nervous laughter. God, even his ass was perfect. She fought off the impulse to smack it, though fuck, she wanted to. He was still grasping her hand, his large thumb tracing circles into it, as if to warn of where he’d put it next; as he pulled her into the bathroom, she couldn’t help the small gasp of delight that issued from her lips; what a fucking bathroom it was. Every surface was either marble or dark slabs of obsidian;  _god, what the fuck does that much obsidian cost?_  There was a giant claw-footed bathtub and a standing shower beside it with marble ledges inside-- _oh god, a fuck shower_ , she thought with a nervous burst of unbidden impulse--and elegant silver fixtures for every faucet. A gigantic rectangular mirror with a frame of what seemed to be gilded sterling silver ran the wide length of the sink--everything was pristinely clean on the countertop, elegant bottles of toiletries lined up like sumptuous cocktails: several Givenchy labels, but lots of other expensive-looking labels she didn’t recognize as well. She thought of her own modest one-bedroom and her tidy-but-tiny bathroom, feeling odd. She chanced a glance at herself in the gigantic mirror and made an involuntary face; her mascara was smeared below her eyes, giving her slight dark circles there. And god, she was still wearing that gigantic, heavy necklace; she realized in the same moment that her neck was aching.

Duncan stopped, his hand still in hers, noticing her expression, which was suddenly shy and self-conscious. She watched him behind her in the mirror, his cock still very hard and very noticeable--it made a blush spread over her cheeks. He reached up to the nape of her neck, brushing her sleep-tossed hair to the side, and undid the clasp there; he gently took the heavy necklace off, one hand reaching to place it on the counter, the other rubbing at her neck there, soothing the ache. His hands came around her from behind, fondling her breasts, her nipples hard and welcoming to his touch; she stared at him through the mirror, and his eyes met hers, their stormy lust unfettered by any smeared makeup. She could feel the hardness of his cock pressing between her legs, and it made her shiver. She watched him through the mirror, aching into his touch. He kissed her neck, kissed her tangled hair, breathing in its scent. “ _Come on_ ,” he soothed, and led her over to the standing shower, its glazed glass doors no doubt not quite shielding any imaginary onlooker from seeing them inside. Duncan turned the elegant silver knob and wonderfully hot water cascaded thickly from the shower head; he immediately pulled her into him urgently, his hands rough this time,  _fuck_ , his lips falling on her neck.

Mackenzie paused for a moment, let the water fall against her backside and through her hair and down her cheeks, soothing the aches in her body from their fucking the night before and wearing that necklace all night, washing the traces of her makeup away, relishing every second of the sensation of his mouth on her body; the thought of never feeling it again filled her stomach with emptiness, made her mouth go dry. _A girl could fucking get used to this; a girl could get lost in this._  She stared down at his length for a moment, savoring the sound of her name on his lips as he whispered it into her ear again, then she pushed him away gently; looking up into his sublimely handsome face--he looked at her curiously, his smile filling her heart and her sex with warmth--and then she knelt on the shower floor, the water still pressing into her skin, urging her on, and she said “ _my turn_ ,” and opened her mouth, taking the head of his cock between her lips and running her tongue along its length. Duncan threw his head back, the water falling through his curls, and groaned ecstatically. His hands found the back of her head, resting there gently, and he shuddered as she eased her mouth down his length until his entire cock was buried momentarily in her throat.

 “Mackenzie,  _fuuuuck_ ,” he whined, impossibly beautiful eyes fluttering as he stared down at her, his mouth parting, his lips humming out her name like he was chanting a prayer. It egged her on; it made her want to give him a release he would never forget. Staring at her makeup smeared face in his ridiculously opulent mirror had made her feel more defiant than anything, now--she would show this spoiled rich boy. Her mouth ran back and forth over his length, sucking and slipping her tongue along his sensitive underside, moving back down to kiss the head of his circumcised cock with her swollen lips, licking at the drops of liquid that leaked from the hole there; his hands still rested, gently, at the back of her head, desiring to keep her there but not forcing himself on her, clearly too lost in her mouth to demand anything else. “Ohhhhh  _fuuuuck_ ,” he moaned again, feeling her hand gently grasping around his balls, massaging them with her small, long fingers. “God,  _baby_ , I don’t wanna come yet, I wanna come inside you--” the words fell out of his mouth in a rush, and she stopped, lips poised at the head of his cock, a thrill running through her;  _baby_. She liked the sound of that. She could get used to hearing that; Duncan Shepherd, calling her  _baby_ , staring down at her this way, totally at her mercy.

He pulled her up with a gentle demand, pushed her with urgency against the wall of the shower (now thick with floating mist from the heat of the water and their bodies’ rising lust), lifted one of her legs so the underside of her knee was grasped tightly in one of his long hands, and pressed the other hand around her neck, thrilling her. And then, he pushed his long, hard cock into her, and she cried out, and he stifled her cry with his mouth, wet and hungry. He fucked her and she moved her hips so they were soon in a hard rhythm, tongues wrapped together, their breath rising in a frenzy, and Mackenzie couldn’t help it--she whispered “ _baby, come for me,_ ” and she watched his eyes flash with desire at her words. “ _I want you to first_ ,” he said, a low edge in his voice making the heat that pooled low in her belly move swiftly downward. “I want you to come all over my cock, angel.” He moved the hand that grasped her neck down between her labia and rubbed urgently at her swollen clit, and she gasped, and her body sent a shockwave to her core, and she screamed at the intensity of her release. “ _Oh, fuck me!_ ” she cried, “ _Fuck, Duncan, fuck_!”

“ _Yes, baby, fuck yes_ ,” he groaned, and at that moment she felt his body shudder immensely and he pulled out as he came, the white stream of cum squirting out between her legs and onto her belly and down her thighs, and she watched his eyes go dark for a moment with his orgasm, watched him stare hungrily at the way he’d claimed her. They stood for a minute, both their bodies heaving with intensity, and then Mackenzie started to laugh again; she couldn’t help it, fuck, she just felt so  _good_ , and he grinned at her and pulled her into him, and held her under the steady stream of water, and they forgot everything for a moment but the weight of each other.

\----------

Duncan turned off the shower head and stepped out, reaching for one of the wonderfully soft, fluffy towels that lined one of the white walls of the gigantic bathroom, turning to Mackenzie and wrapping it around her. Her heart hammered in her throat as he did it; it was so soft and his eyes were so warm and he looked so fucking good, it made a nameless fear rise inside her again, a fear of this being the last time she’d look into those eyes to see them looking back at her that way.

“God, I’m starving,” he said, smiling ( _could I ever not be dazzled by that smile?_ , she wondered), wrapping another towel around his waist, running a hand through his wet curls. “Do you like eggs? I have an extra toothbrush.” He said this all so matter-of-factly it disarmed her completely and her mind went blank, as though she had suddenly forgotten how to speak. He looked at her questioningly, that smile still playing at the corners of his gorgeous mouth. She hesitated, biting her lip.

“What’s wrong?” A cloud fell over his handsome face, and he reached out to her, his hand grasping hers softly.

“Nothing,” she said, though she knew exactly what was wrong.  _Duncan Shepherd_ , she thought, a tiny silent scream bubbling up in her mind. _Duncan Fucking Shepherd_. “You’re just...you’re just not like I imagined you to be.”

He laughed at that.  _What a laugh. God, he’s so beautiful._

“What, did you think I’d have horns?” The words tumbled from between his perfect teeth, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and something about them sent a jolt of energy through her body, one she couldn’t decipher. She shook her head a little, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Mackenzie, I love your smile.”

She looked up at him in surprise. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”

He beamed at that. “So, eggs?”

“I like mine over medium.”

“A girl after my own heart.”

The words hung between them as they stared at each other. He broke the spell, leaning down to one of the drawers along the sink’s counter, pulling out the promised toothbrush.

“Take your time, I have clean shirts in the drawers at the front of the closet, I’ll be in the kitchen,” he said, and kissed her sweetly as he handed her the toothbrush, his head leaning down to her small frame, his hair falling over his forehead again, impossibly beautiful. He moved away, hand brushing her arm as he did, looking behind his shoulder at her as he left the bathroom, moving towards the walk-in closet to the left side of his bed. She sighed softly; looking back into the mirror as he turned.

“Kenzie, you fucking idiot,” she whispered to herself. “You absolute fucking moron.”

\-------

She had cleaned her teeth (she was relieved to see at least his toothpaste was the kind you can buy at the pharmacy like a normal person) and used a wood comb she found in one of his bathroom drawers to get the worst of the tangles out of her hair. Makeup didn’t matter--she rarely wore any unless she had to, mostly to work and of course, stupid parties her boss wanted her to go to, to cover events  _(like last night_ , she thought with a shiver). She moved quietly out of the bathroom, warily, but noticed he’d moved on from the walk-in closet, and she could smell breakfast-y smells wafting from the kitchen, eggs and smoke and coffee and toast smells. She could hear low music coming from the front rooms as well--sweet, dreamy low-fi electronic, the kind of thing her friend Claire called  _sexy time music_ , the kind you hear in hip coffee shops.

She stepped into the closet, stifling a gasp. “Jesus fuck,” she whispered to herself, eyes roving over the contents of it, a hand squeezing around her chest. She was in Duncan Shepherd’s closet, and it did not disappoint. Rows of black blazers and high-collared button-up Oxford shirts hung perfectly pressed in two rows; several tailored and extremely expensive-looking leather jackets hung on the opposite side, suit jackets, turtlenecks, tailored sweaters and coats. On the shelves were pristinely organized belts, cufflinks, several extremely expensive-looking watches and rings, and several very high-end leather totes and satchels ( _these must easily be worth 2k each_ , she thought, her heart hammering at the bottom of her throat). His closet had only extremely beautiful, practical things--and almost all in black. It stole her breath away. This was the closet of a man who was really going somewhere.

She sheepishly pulled one of the drawers towards the front open as he’d instructed; inside was rows and rows of tailored black tee shirts and cardigans and form-fitting long-sleeved cashmere. She desperately searched through it for something resembling what her mom called a “painting tee”--a shirt that was essentially for wearing to bed or doing housework. Finally, at the bottom, she found a Led Zeppelin graphic tee. “Oh, thank god,” she whispered. “He’s probably not a serial killer.” She laughed nervously at her own joke, tip-toeing out of the closet, almost glad to be out of it--it overwhelmed her.

She felt self-conscious about dropping the towel somewhere; she noticed he’d untangled her little velvet dress and laid it out neatly on one of the black pillows ( _the pillows we didn’t even sleep on_ , she thought absently); the gesture struck her with its sweetness, as though he were inviting her back into his bed already, hinting that he wanted her there. His own clothes from last night were nowhere to be seen. She noticed the telltale hints of their lovemaking on the duvet, though; the white smears of their mutual cum streaking noticeably on the black coverlet. She blushed a little, but Duncan had pulled it down into a pile, probably to wash it later, and the rest of the bed was mostly untouched, sheets barely ruffled. They’d passed out so abruptly after they fucked; they hadn’t even really gotten into bed. She bit her lip, unwrapping the towel from her now mostly-dry body, and laid it beside her dress for a moment while she slipped the tee-shirt over her head. It was large on her, slipping off one shoulder, falling to the top of her knees. She searched the floor for a sign of her underwear; nowhere to be seen. She chewed her lip, taking the towel back into the bathroom and hanging it once again on the hook Duncan had gotten it from. She searched again in vain for her underwear; nope.

 _Full monty it is then_ , she thought, and snorted in amusement.  _Who the fuck even are you?_  She thought to herself. When was the last time she slept with a guy on the first night, let alone someone like Duncan Fucking Shepherd? Had she lost her fucking mind? But she only half-cared. The wild energy from last night, though not as overwhelming in the light of day, was still humming under her skin; it was still here, smaller and more controlled, but unusual and enchanting and intoxicating all the same. What was even happening?  _Kenzie, just fucking go with it_ , she ordered herself.  _Just let it happen._

She carefully, quietly exited the bedroom, bare feet padding across the rich Persian rug that lined the polished wood. Duncan’s front room was massive; she was pleasantly surprised to see the walls lined with Pre-Raphaelite paintings (maybe reproductions, maybe not, she thought with a tinge of intimidation) and several beautiful pieces of Greek statuary (one of Nike, goddess of victory, headless and winged; another Athena, the goddess of wisdom, and another of Justice, her scales and blindfold prominent; and she was struck by them). A long, low couch made of dark leather stretched across the room, a large TV (currently off, she was relieved to see) mounted on the wall across from it, a unique vintage fainting chair in one corner, a loveseat in another, each next to a standing reading lamp. A coffee table of dark wood sat on another rug in front of the couch, and on it was today’s copy of the  _Washington Times_  and the recent issue of  _The Economist_ , a neat stack of round, black drink coasters, and several pillar candles. She could see through a side-doorway another room that looked like an office or a study, a mahogany desk slightly visible, the walls lined with expensive-looking shelves full of books, and that relieved her; that old John Waters quote, oft-cited by her mother, floated into her mind:  _If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them._

 _Would have been too late_ , she mused.

“There you are,” she heard his voice behind her and turned, and there he was, leaning down to kiss her again, his mouth sweet with the mingling tastes of coffee and orange juice. “God, you look so cute,” he grinned at her. He was wearing a pair of black sweatpants and a black hoodie, zipped to about the center of his ribcage; she could see the fine hairs on his chest and the incline of his throat, and she absently licked her lips.  _Thank god he owns a pair of sweatpants_ ; she thanked whoever was listening again.

“Breakfast is ready,” he said, and wrapped his arm around her, pressing his fingers into the curve of her body under the oversized tee. “You should wear my old graphic tees all the time, they look a lot better on you.” She smiled shyly, heart slamming.

His kitchen was, of course, fucking gorgeous too; similarly styled as the bathroom, with marble and obsidian countertops and silver fixtures and appliances, the fridge and stove immaculate, smooth and top-of-the-line, a hanging chandelier of round crystal drops extending from the ceiling, more romantic a piece than she would have expected, but the same went for the paintings and all-female statuary. An island extended in the center, the table top a great black obsidian slab, and on it Duncan had placed two black plates, each with two eggs (done perfectly over medium, she noticed, mouth watering) and two slices of toast with strawberry jam spread on them, a glass of orange juice (his half-drunk) and a cup of black coffee.

“It looks perfect,” she said, smiling at him. 

“You look perfect,” he replied, those relentless eyes gazing over her, and she shivered a little.  _Duncan Shepherd_ , she thought. Duncan Shepherd just said that to me.  _Duncan Shepherd just made me breakfast after we fucked. Twice._

“Um, you didn’t see my underwear anywhere, did you?” She asked shyly as she sat carefully on the black stool, in front of the untouched plate that was obviously hers.

“Washing machine,” he said matter-of-factly. His smile was mischievous and suggestive, extending one long finger over the island, trailing it down her arm, across her hand. “They needed a little freshening up too.” She felt herself blush;  _your panties were covered in your wanton desire, honey_ , her brain whispered. But if anything, Duncan seemed turned on again by the implication; his hand stayed on hers, his breakfast still untouched.

“Thanks,” she said, and lifted her fork, trying a bite of the eggs; they were perfect. He let go of her, it seemed, somewhat reluctantly, and picked up his toast, taking a large bite, cradling his coffee cup in one of his large hands, not speaking, just looking at her intently, his black phone resting beside them on the tabletop. A text dinged from it; he glanced at it absently, and Mackenzie couldn’t help it; she did too. She noticed the name above the message;  _Mom_. Annette Shepherd. She didn’t get a chance to read the text before Duncan turned the phone over and pushed it away from him, his eyes intent on her still.

Thoughts of last night floated into her mind; how she’d loathed the idea of going to the party, how she’d had to pretend she was working for a Republican Senator to get into it (press credentials were frowned upon at events like that-- especially  _her_  press credential); she was good at lying when she had to, but she hated doing it, and she wondered absently where she’d dropped her clutch, wondered how many texts her mother had sent her already; she glanced behind Duncan at the digital clock over the stove; 8:17 AM. Probably at least five. She wondered what Annette Shepherd had said to her son to make him push his phone away like that; wondered if she had the guts to tell him what she had avoided saying last night.

“Duncan, it’s wonderful,” she said, and she wasn’t lying; it really was. Whatever kind of jam he’d used on the toast was delicious, it tasted fresh from a farmer’s market; same with the orange juice. Her coffee was perfect, not too dark, just the way she liked it; it warmed her to her toes, clearing away the haze of the bourbon that still lingered in her head. Another one of her mother’s sayings wandered into her head: _find a man who knows how to cook; then you know he isn’t looking for a maid_. Eggs were eggs, but still.

“Mackenzie,” he said, still staring. “Tell me about yourself.” He was still smiling, but she could see the intensity of his curiosity now; now that their lusts had been sated, at least for now, he really did want to know what she had neglected to tell him last night. Who she was.

“I’m a witch from the future,” she stifled a laugh. She couldn’t help it; he made her feel like laughing, like teasing him, to stave off how intimidated she felt around him. He grinned at her.

“You know, I would believe that,” he replied, his hand falling through his perfect hair absently. “You seem like you’re from another world.”

“I guess I am, in a way,” she said before she could stop herself. “I think we come from very different worlds.” She looked down at her eggs then, pushing another forkful into her mouth to stop herself from saying anything else.

He looked at her, puzzled. “What do you mean by that?”

She swallowed, picking up the orange juice, pushing a strand of drying chestnut hair behind her ear; she could feel her crystal earrings still hanging there, reflecting light off his opulent kitchen chandelier. She felt so out of place here. She thought about her small apartment again; thought about why she had been at that party last night. She couldn’t help it; she felt like an impostor.  _Elucidating on the plight of the working class while I schmooze with Duncan Shepherd_ , she thought bitterly.  _Fuck. Has to be done. Like ripping off a band-aid._

She put her fork down, took the napkin beside her plate, wiped her mouth and hands, placed it back down, and steeled her nerves. She extended a hand to him, professionally. The look on his face was still confusion; he smiled uneasily, holding out his hand to grasp hers. She shook it; shook it the way she would shake the hand of an old white man in the hallway of Congress (though he, whoever he was, would likely ignore her hand as often as not), her little recorder held out to his face, taking a quote.

“Mackenzie Stone,  _Washington Post_. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Shepherd.”

Duncan’s mouth fell open.

“ _What_.” His eyes, wide, bright blue, stared at her in shock. “ _Stone_? The fucking  _Post_?” His mouth hung open still, and his body was suddenly tense, frozen. She bit her lip, her eyes falling.  _Here we go._

“You’re Madeline Stone’s daughter.”

She nodded, tucking the strand of hair behind her ear again; it refused to stay there. She reached out for the orange juice again, gulped it as though she were parched.

“Yeah. I am.”

He just continued to stare, speechless. His phone dinged again; he ignored it.

“Madeline Fucking Stone’s daughter. Mackenzie Stone.”

“Last time I checked with her, yes.”

“Oh,  _fuck_.”

“Well, now you get why I didn’t tell you my last name last night.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“I can, uh, see myself out.” She stood up from the stool, absently trying to pull the shirt down over her legs more modestly; then she realized her underwear were in Duncan Shepherd’s washing machine still. She stood there awkwardly.

“What? No. Don’t leave.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “What? Don’t leave? Our parents fucking hate each other.”

He had buried his hands in his dark curls; he looked almost comical that way and she bit down the giggle that threatened the back of her throat. He stared at her, his mouth still slightly open. He seemed lost in thought; lost in his disbelief.

“Mackenzie.”

“Yes.”

“Stone.”

“Yes.”

“Mackenzie Fucking Stone.”

“That’s not my actual middle name, it’s Louise, but I guess that’ll do for now.”

“Mackenzie, be serious.”

“I am being serious!”

“Mackenzie,  _fuck_. Madeline Stone, Pulitzer-prize-winning journalist, thirty years with the  _Post_ , forerunner of third-wave feminist theory, Madeline Fucking Stone, my uncle’s sworn enemy. And my mother fucking hates her.”

“I know, Duncan. I told you I knew who you were.”

She toed the tiled floor, tucking her hands together in front of her; unsure of what to do, lingering lamely.

“Sit back down.” His tone was insistent.

She did.

“I can’t believe this.”

“I...Duncan. I’m sorry.”

His eyes were cloudy again, reminding her of the way they’d darkened last night in the throes of their fucking, darkened as he gazed at her in the shower, fucking her, hard, needy. His eyes did that when he felt overwhelmed in something, it seemed. Or someone. His eggs sat forgotten, growing cold. He hooked one of his large hands under his chin, rubbing it, lost in thought, fingers trailing over his lips.

“ _Stone_ ,” he whispered to himself. “ _Madeline Stone_.”

“Duncan--it’s--it’s okay. We can pretend this never happened.”

“ _What_?” he said, his tone shocked. “No. No, Mackenzie. That’s not what I want at all.”

The insistence in his voice gob-smacked her. She had assumed that as soon as she told him he’d shove her out the door, hands full of her belongings.  _That’s not what I want at all._  His words rang in her ears as if thrown by an echo. They buzzed in her eardrums.

He sat in silence for another minute, staring at her in disbelief. Suddenly, he grabbed his coffee cup and drained it, throwing his head back, and she watched his adam’s apple bob in his throat, unable to resist the desire that rose in her at the sight of him, despite everything.

He slammed it down on the counter and the handle snapped off; _obsidian countertops take no prisoners._  Mackenzie blinked at him, her eyes wide.

“I don’t care.”

“What do you mean  _you don’t care_?”

“I don’t care who your mother is. I don’t care who my mother is. I don’t fucking care.”

She covered her mouth with a small hand, disbelieving.

He reached across the counter, and she reached back to him, despite herself; their hands tangled and their fingers grasped each other, fitting as perfectly together now as they had in the haze of the night before.

“Mackenzie, listen to me. I have to go see my mother soon; I have to check in with her about last night. I was there to speak to some of the politicians there, and I have information for her that she’s expecting. But I’m not going to tell her about you. I won’t say anything about you; at least not until you want me to. But I want to see you again. I want to see you tonight.”

She stared at him, speechless. Of all the reactions she expected, this was not on the list. Not only did she fuck Duncan Shepherd ( _twice_ ), and not only did she tell him her mother was Madeline Stone after the fact, Duncan Shepherd wanted to see her again. He still wanted to fucking see her again. He wanted to see her fucking tonight. Was this man insane? Was she insane? Because she wanted to see him again too. She didn’t think she could say no. In fact, in her heart of hearts, she would have begged to see him again. The thought didn’t make her proud, but it was true.

 _Fuck it_ , she thought. Fuck. It.

“Okay,” she said. “Yes. Okay.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Original Notes:** _Y’all, wow, your response to this fic is continually amazing, THANK YOU SO MUCH. I feel so inspired to continue with it, I plowed through this part as soon as we got back from Brooklyn today. Despite my dislike for DC (I’ve spent a lot of time there and it drives me nuts) I’m becoming an expert in high-end DC businesses (tailors, florists, restaurants) thanks to this fic! There’s a lot of logistic details I needed to get through in this part, so pardon its plottiness, I PROMISE we are getting back to the smut very soon. Madeline Stone, Mackenzie’s mom, a character I invented for this fic, is basically Carrie Fisher if she were a journalist (and still alive :’( sobbb) in my eyes, so think of her as Carrie, visually and temperamentally. I think I’ll keep switching between POVs as the fic goes on, so Part 4 will be from Kenzie’s perspective, 5 from Duncan’s, etc etc. Wait till you see what Duncan’s gonna do with all those roses._
> 
> **AO3 Notes:** _I promise the fic will all go up here eventually. My personal life is very chaotic, stressful and time-consuming right now. I'm hard at work on the BODY AND SOUL[Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2hk9UxmmwT7uu8YgAfilCA?si=g5ULOA_VReO3WOZ3KS1DEA) playlist and soon I'll make a masterpost of all the visual/etc edits people made for the fic on Tumblr (they're gorgeous and if you like the fic, believe me, you want to see them). Lately, being in love myself--and having to be away from that person--reading over this fic has been sort of difficult for me. But it's the Sagittarius full moon tonight. Auspicious is an understatement. Thanks to everyone who's been leaving me kudos._

****Duncan stared from the window of the backseat of his private car, out onto the National Mall where Sunday tourists were snapping photos of the Washington monument with their smartphones, children screaming and running, blue sky mirroring his blue gaze, clouds skirting over the bright May sunlight, clouds passing over his eyes; the clouds of his thoughts, the darkness of them, whirling in his mind.

He still felt dizzy and disoriented from the last 15 or so hours; felt the cold quelling in his heart that he couldn’t push down entirely, trying to convince him that Mackenzie had indeed been a very vivid, very beautiful, very soft figment of his imagination. He stretched his fingers absently, longingly, trying to trap the memory of the feeling of her small hand in them; trying to recall as clearly as he could the soft ache of her lips against his mouth. God, if only he could bottle feelings into tight containers, safe and hidden to open when he wished to breathe them into his lungs; if only memories, however recent, could be recalled into reality whenever you wanted them to be. He wanted to recall every tiny detail of her; her cascading, shimmering hair, her impossibly deep eyes with their long lashes, her small mouth and her dazzlingly sincere smile, her throat with its quartz, the jewels of a goddess, the round hardness of her nipples in his lips, the sweet scent of her down between her thighs, the ridges of the outline of her ribs under his hands, a map he wanted to memorize in minute exhaustion.

He thought of her wearing his tee shirt, the fall of her damp hair over her shoulder, the way she stared at her plate, a light blush on her cheeks, her look of doubt as she stared into his eyes, disappointment and sadness flickering there as she stood up, saying she would leave; he thought of how his heart had lept in his chest in horror at the thought; the idea of her leaving, of her vanishing into the void of the world when he’d finally just found her this way, when he had held her in his arms so entirely, had made him want to scream. He would have begged her to stay if need be; would have gone on his knees and kissed her fingers and fucking begged. The knowledge of this shook him to the core; when and how and whereby could this small gold goddess, stepped out of the ether itself it seemed, make him feel so entirely unraveled, unhinged? He shook his head lightly, closing his eyes, bringing his hand up to his chin and over his lips again, the way he always did when he was troubled in thought, lost in confusion. He didn’t know how, he didn’t understand any of this, but he knew one thing: he knew he couldn’t wait to see her tonight, the thought of seeing her again was bringing that warm-water-over-a-glass-cascading-into-a-black-hole feeling into his veins again, filling him up, causing his nerves to tingle, the back of his skull to vibrate with sensitivity. He felt overwhelmed in the feeling; the memory of their bodies pressed together in ecstatic sensation, that hidden brightness inside her eyes, her voice moaning his name, her little mouth around his cock, god, god,  _Mackenzie_.

_Madeline goddamnfuckingshitfuck Stone’s daughter_.

He still couldn’t believe that; it was as if there were a brick wall in his mind that was preventing it from really settling, really sinking in. Annette Shepherd and Madeline Stone had once been classmates at Georgetown University; but it wouldn’t be accurate to have ever called them  _friends_. While Annette had chosen the path of power wherever she could find it, Madeline had channeled all her energies into journalism and feminist theory, earning her a Pulitzer at 23; a feat that gained her worldwide notoriety and a permanent position with the  _Washington Post_ , a position she’d kept through a pregnancy ( _Mackenzie_ , Duncan thought, hand still wrapped around his chin, and his mind moved unbidden to the feeling of her velvet dress under his fingers, the dip of her neck between his lips, the moans of ecstasy falling from her lips as his mouth worked at her clit), two divorces, bipolar disorder, and a benign lump in her breast.  Madeline Stone was un-fuck-withable, had written candid bestselling memoirs about her mental health struggles and her failed marriages and love affairs, as well as two bestselling books on feminist theory that were now considered essential literature in college women’s studies courses. She was a hero of modern feminism; a powerful force in Washington, as revered a figure as Gertrude Stein, a hero to millennial women. 

And oh, how Annette Shepherd hated her. “Fucking Medusa,” she’d called Madeline once in Duncan’s presence, the words slipping between her teeth in a hiss. “High on her femdom shit looking down on the rest of us. A thorn in my fucking side, splashing her harlotry all over my fucking city.” Stone and his mother had had several very public arguments on C-SPAN and CNN; in one, Madeline had called Annette “an absolute viper of white, privileged, colonizing complicity,” the clip of which had made the rounds on YouTube to the tune of 1 million views when Annette had stormed out in a fury.

He imagined the look of cold shock on his mother’s face at the theoretical admission from him that he had slept with Madeline Stone’s daughter last night; imagined the blood draining from her cheeks and the twist of her mouth if she knew a modicum of the truth of his thoughts. Those thoughts were still swirling in his head, glowing and fervent and warm and tender, thoughts that pulsed with longing, with desire. If Annette Shepherd knew that not only had her son and Madeline Stone’s daughter fucked each other’s brains out last night in a frenzy of lust, but that her son, her fierce pride and joy, whom she trusted implicitly and demanded complete loyalty from, was, dare he say it, dare he even think it, already, somehow, insanely, and with total abandon, falling hopelessly in love with Madeline Stone’s fucking daughter.

“ _God fucking damn it_ ,” he muttered, biting his lip. “ _Fuck me_.”

“ _Okay_ ,” the memory of Mackenzie’s voice rang in his ears, echoing through the recent past, her invisible lips brushing his ear. “ _I’ll fuck you, baby. I’ll fuck you so good.”_

He shivered, the fine hairs on the back of his neck tingling and standing on end, goosebumps rising on his arms under his immaculate black cashmere sweater. He hooked a finger around the band collar of the perfectly ironed shirt under the sweater, feeling too hot.  _God damn, but I really don’t care deep down, I really don’t, still. Even if Mom started to spit fire. I don’t think I could stop. I have to see her again. What’s happening to me? Who is this girl, how am I feeling this way? God, I need a drink. What the fuck time is it?_

He glanced at his watch; today it was the round black Movado he usually wore on regular days. 11:24 AM. He was shocked to see his hands were shaking a little;  _the bourbon and too much coffee_ , he insisted to himself. But he thought of her mouth again, her soft little hands on his cock, and he knew better.

He thought back on how they’d parted.

\--------

He’d thrown her underwear into his silver, round Miele dryer; it took an average of ten minutes for it to dry practically anything, but for the first time since he’d bought it he wished it would dry slower; he had hated to stare at the thought that soon she’d be leaving, the smell of her lingering on his old Led Zeppelin tee, vetiver, geranium, roses, the heady smell of her already ground into the lining of his skin, haunting, bittersweet. She’d gone back into his room while he was at the dryer, slipped on her little velvet dress, her hair mostly dry now; he noted with a sad, low thump of his heart that the tee she’d worn was folded neatly on his nightstand as he went into the bedroom, gazing over her and the bed where they’d embraced so unforgettably a few short hours before,  _gold light all over her body_ , and he’d gone up behind her as she leaned to fix the hem of her little dress, wrapping his arms around her hips, bringing his hands up tenderly around her arms, pressing his face into the crook of her ear and jaw. She had sighed; the sound of it slinging bursts of light along every nerve of his body.

“Give me your phone number; please?” He’d reached his head forward a little, lips brushing her cheek, which was cool and smelled of the jasmine soap from his shower. She’d let out a little burst of a laugh, a sort of  _ha!_ , as if at the silly reality that they had been wildly intimate and didn’t have each other’s phone numbers yet; he silently agreed that modern life was constantly bizarre, but didn’t move his arms from her body; he felt loathe to.

“I’ll leave it on the nightstand with a receipt for my fee,” she joked.

“You know, I should have known you were Madeline’s daughter. She can’t stand to be serious either.”

Her elbow jabbed him softly in the stomach and he let out a little choke of laughter. She turned around, her face held up to him, the sunlight glowing around her head from his tall bedroom windows, dark damask curtains pushed aside,  _like a halo, this angel, angel baby_ , his mind murmured in a rush, and he was struck with a terrible tender feeling of longing; their lips connected, soft, suddenly reverent; and Duncan felt as though the air was abruptly sucked away from the sphere of matter that surrounded them.  _I could kiss this girl forever, forfuckingever, everlasting_ , his hand came up and buried itself in her hair again, holding her mouth against him, insistent. And he was overwhelmed again, again, again.

“Let me give you one of my jackets to wear home,” he had insisted. “It’s chilly today.”

She had smiled sweetly at him, her hand coming up to her mouth absently, biting her nail shyly. “I don’t need to, Duncan--”

“I want you to. I want you to wear my jacket. Please?”

She’d nodded, the blush spreading over her cheeks, and he wanted to cover her face with tender kisses, he ached to hold her face in his hands again, but he resisted with all his might; she might not want to be touched so much, and he was loathe to do anything she didn’t want. God, she looked so beautiful in this light; ethereal in a way that was different from the night before, like a Bouguereau to last night’s golden Waterhouse; he imagined flowers in her hair suddenly, imagined her dancing with sunlight on her shoulders, and he felt lost in her, speechless, thoughtless, struck dumb at her wondrousness.

He’d wrapped a black wool Brooks Brothers’ cardigan around her small shoulders; his favorite cardigan, he silently admitted to himself, warmth pooling in his mind, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Thanks, this is lovely,” she’d whispered, and he loved how big it was on her small frame, loved the way its hem fell behind her knees, the arms falling past her fingers, enveloping her.

“Let me get your underwear,” he’d whispered with a mischievous grin, and she’d smiled and nodded, her little fingers playing with the zipper on his hoodie. He’d brought them back to the bedroom to her with her clutch which he’d retrieved from the floor by the front door where she’d discarded it the night before in their passionate distraction; he turned away modestly as she stepped into the panties, but he felt her hand on his arm and turned back around; she roughly pulled his face down to hers, her tongue slipping into his mouth, thrilling him, and she had said “ _Duncan, you’re wonderful_ ,” and he’d shook his head a little without pulling his mouth away, whispering “ _fuck, Mackenzie, you fucking are_ ,” into her. She pulled away and he felt empty and too full at once, leaning toward where she had been, and he saw the way her eyes glinted with approval, happy with his obvious want.

“Phone numbers.”

She’d taken his sleek black iPhone from his hands, swiftly opening his contacts and typing in a new entry with fast fingers; she turned it around and presented it to him, that luminescent smile playing around her mouth; Kenzie Stone, she’d typed, digits below. “Kenzie,” he verbalized. “I love that.”

“I’d call you Dunc, but I don’t know if it has quite the same ring,” she giggled, and he was lost again for a moment in her dancing gaze. He laughed; he saw her grin widen. She liked to make him laugh, and that invisible hand squeezed around his heart again. He pressed the ‘call’ button; Mackenzie unbuttoned her clutch and pulled her phone out (which was on silent, though Duncan could see it vibrating in her hand), smiling at the phone number on her screen. “Infamous Playboy and Cutthroat Duncan Shepherd,” she said aloud as she typed, hiding the face of her phone from him; he snorted and pushed it down to gaze at what she’d written; just “Duncan Shepherd”, thankfully. “I’m not a fucking playboy,” he said, hand coming up to her arm, pulling her close with just a hint of roughness. “You have a fuck shower,” she countered, smirking, gold rings dancing in her hazel gaze, her sweet breath grazing his neck as he pressed her to him. 

“Well, thank god for that, now that you’re here,” he hummed, mouth hovering over hers, relishing the softness of her skin under his grip. “That investment finally seems to have been worth it.” He captured her mouth, hand holding her neck gently once more, and she seemed to melt into him and the sun emerged from behind a cloud in that moment and bathed them in radiant splendor, a heavenly glow akin to the brilliance of daylight skewed in stained glass and there with her wrapped in his arms beside his bed, he thought  _this moment could be my last and I’d die happy, here with you, Mackenzie Stone_.

\-------

“Can I pick you up at 9?” He’d asked, an uncharacteristic shyness creeping into his words again, still taking him off guard though it had happened so often over the past 12 hours, his hand coming up behind his curls, absent-mindedly, self-consciously. He suddenly felt like he was 16 again, asking a girl to prom, but with a whole undercurrent of intensity that prom never brought on to any teenager in all human time; the weight of destiny was pressing on his psyche, he could feel it, and it was intoxicating and terrifying. “It’ll be my private car.” She was stepping into her strappy heeled sandals, about to lean down to tie them again when he kneeled to her as he had last night, wrapping them expertly around her tiny ankles, tying them in double-knots. He looked up at her from where he knelt before her, and he could see the reticent rosiness of her expression as she gazed down on him there, a sort of satisfied apprehension in her eyes. _I’d do this for you every day_ , he thought.  _I’d kneel to you always._

“Okay, sure,” she said, her quiet voice ringing across his immaculate wood floors and stone countertops and in the empty space of his penthouse, filling it with her energy. “Yes.”

“Kenzie,” he said.

“Duncan,” she replied, her hands fumbling against her clutch, nervously.

He stood up, his height towering over her once more, her small frame outlined against his much larger one, and he thought of the way she fit against him, folded into his arms, the feeling of their bare skin against each other, a haze of desire washing over him again.

“I can’t wait to see you again. This has been…”

“So amazing,” she finished, boldness bleeding into her eyes as she looked up at him. “This was so wonderful.”

“Yes.” His hands found one of hers, grasping it tightly, reluctant to release her. “I feel exactly the same way. I...I don’t think anyone has ever made me feel this way before. You’re--”

She’d hushed his mouth with a hot, fervent, lightning-quick kiss. His words had bled into a groan into her, and he’d tried to grasp her, but she’d flitted away from him then, out the door, and she was running down the hall to where the elevator flew open to receive her, as if by some strange magic, and she’d called out “I’ll see you tonight, Duncan Shepherd,” over her shoulder, and oh, fuck, how his heart had ached to see her go, his cardigan wrapped around her, her hair shining in the warm light of the hall, the smell of her lingering all over him with a terrible ache, and he felt a breeze that seemed to come from nowhere fall over him; the wind of fate, closing in, claiming its prey.

\-------

Duncan’s driver pulled up to his mother’s opulent four-story home, the vast Colonial-esque mansion he’d grown up in, and he pressed a deep, apprehensive breath out of his lungs, hands raking along his thighs. His mother was good at needling his moods out of him without him saying anything; clearly she would notice his strange temperament and question him about it. He needed to steel his nerves against Annette Shepherd’s almost supernatural second-sight.

“Samuel, I won’t be long,” he said to his driver, a handsome older black man of indecipherable age with a shiny bald head and a closely-cropped white beard and rectangular glasses. Samuel had been working for the Shepherds for over 30 years; he was faithfully discrete, as any employee of the Shepherd family was required to be. Duncan trusted him implicitly.

“Right, Mr. Shepherd,” Samuel replied, staring at him through the rear-view mirror. “Are you feeling alright today, Mr.Shepherd?” Samuel was unfailingly loyal, but he was also extremely observant. Duncan hesitated. Samuel had the night off yesterday; hence Duncan arriving at and leaving ( _with Mackenzie, oh Kenzie_ ) the party via Uber. He wondered how much he should tell Samuel about her. He’d have to say something; they’d be picking her up tonight, after all.

“I met someone.”

He saw Samuel’s eyebrows raise in the mirror, a small smirk coming into the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, now. When do I get to meet them?” Samuel was aware that Duncan had had intimate relationships with other men before--a fact Annette still was not factually aware of, though he sometimes wondered if she knew and just didn’t want to acknowledge it-- and Duncan silently appreciated the discretion of his word choice. His bisexuality was one of those things Samuel was silent as the grave to his mother about, though he knew its reality quite well.

“Her. Tonight. I made reservations for Le Diplomate. And I need to stop at English Rose Garden after I’m finished with Mom.”

He could see Samuel grinning at him, his happiness and interest immediately obvious.

“Whatever you need, Mr. Shepherd. I look forward to meeting her.”

“Samuel...she’s wonderful.”

“I can tell that much just by looking at your face.”

“Believe me, anything I say would not be enough to describe her. Just wait.”

He opened the car door, taking a deep breath again. Into the lion’s den.

He quickly ascended the three wide front steps and turned the embossed gold knob, stepping through one of the opulent double doors that led into the entrance hall of the Shepherd mansion; “Mom?” he called into the house, eyes searching. “Mom, where are you?”

“Up here, Duncan,” he heard her silky voice call; he took the winding white staircase with its familiar gold-lined banisters (the left side of which he’d crashed off of when he was five years old, breaking one of his front teeth) two at a time, towards where he knew the exercise room off her office was; as he entered the room she glanced up from where she was walking quickly on her Peloton, sweat glistening from her forehead, her perfect hair swatting from side-to-side in an impossibly neat ponytail. She hit a button to slow the machine down, stepping off it with a sigh; grabbing a white towel slung over the side, pressing it to her slender neck.

“So, what do you have for me, darling?” She asked expectantly.

“Senator Howell will do everything in his legislative power to press the bill through, but of course, it’s Claire who we have to press hardest once it gets to her,” he replied in clipped, business-like tones, the kind she preferred he use with her, the kind she’d taught him to use for leverage since he was in middle school. “Uncle Bill can do more there than I can, but you know that.”

He bit his lip; a vision of Kenzie’s eyes had passed through his mind, and he rubbed his hands together absently, his right thumb pressing into the palm of his left hand to quell any shake that tried to threaten his voice.

Annette looked at him with satisfaction for a moment, and then her eyes clouded with concern-- _concern for the bill no doubt_ , Duncan thought bitterly, _she thinks my obvious discontent has something to do with that, not with the angel who fell into my bed last night._

“What is it, Duncan. Tell me.”

“It’s nothing. I just didn’t get as much information out of him as I wanted, that’s all. I wanted confirmation of all of his PAC donors, but he only gave me two.”

She gazed at him and Duncan tried to keep his expression neutral. His mother was just too damn good at getting things out of him. He was reminded of a time when he was a boy when he’d stolen Valium from her purse and had lied to her when she had asked, though he knew that she knew he’d taken it. The dark cloud that went over her expression was one he’d never forgotten; you either told Annette Shepherd the truth or you paid dearly. His mother never hit him; her anger was far deeper than that, her grudges unshakable and unrelenting. He’d learned that day that it simply wouldn't do to lie to his mother. And yet here he was, on the edge of doing so for the first time since he was a child.

She seemed to be about to ask him something else, but her gaze shifted indecipherably, and she moved the conversation somewhere else; from what he couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t want to know. He hadn’t convinced her. She knew already he wasn’t telling her something.

“Fine. I’ll see that paunchy fuck at the Gala. I’ll make him tell me the rest. We have evidence of his mistress in Clarendon, but we only got confirmation last night after the party had already begun and I was tied up with the cable coverage. It’ll be the leverage we need. The bill will be on Claire’s desk by the end of the week for certain. Your uncle won’t accept anything less.”

Duncan rolled his eyes, “Oh, of course, because Bill Shepherd’s will is the will of God.”

“It might as well fucking be, Duncan.”

She looked at him strangely again, and Duncan tried to maintain his composure. His mother’s eyes had always made his blood run cold when she looked at him like that. His stomach turned over.  _Madeline Fucking Stone’s daughter_.

“What are your plans tonight, dear?” She toweled her neck again, throwing it back over the side of the Peloton rail.

“I have some information to go over with Melody for the next show,” he rambled, “and I need to look over that report Seth was compiling.”  _More lies_ , he thought with a nervous edge.  _If she asks Seth about the report my cover’s blown, he gave it to me two days ago._

“Fine, dear. Let’s have dinner tomorrow. I miss my boy.” She came up to him, hands pressing into his shoulders, smiling her familiar smile, somehow both warm and terribly cold at once, her eyes two orbs of void, staring into him, deciphering him. Always knowing.

“Of course, Mom.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek, and he saw the strange expression come over her face again as he brushed against her.  _Oh god, she smells Mackenzie_ , he thought.

“That’s an interesting scent,” she murmured into his ear, unnerving him with her confirmation of his fears. “Vetiver, is it?”

“I’ve always liked it, thought I’d try something different.”

“I don’t think it suits you,” she replied in a low voice. The edge in her tone made a cold sweat break out under his shirt, clammy on his skin. She turned away, stepping back onto her Peloton, hitting a few buttons, putting her earbuds in, looking down to the screen, her attention sliding off him like water in that familiar way. He knew that was his cue to leave.

\----

At the florist Duncan bought three dozen roses, dark red like the roses that had lined the balcony last night when he’d seen her standing there in her little black velvet dress, her hair shining like starlight, her face gazing into the distance like Artemis bathed in a pool of moonlight, surrounded by her does and hounds. He had an idea, and he was determined to get Kenzie to stay the night again tonight, any work to be done tomorrow in the cold grey light of Monday be damned. He would do anything and everything he could. He’d woo her for as long as it took.  _Kenzie, Kenzie, Kenzie_ , he thought in a daze, thought of her hands and her ankles wrapped in the heeled sandals, the curves of her hips ( _god, I got to see what they look like, they’re fucking gorgeous_ ), the tiny crystals dangling from her ears, the delicate rise of her breasts, the hairless moisture between her legs in the glow of the lamplight over his bed.

His heart was shaking; god, this feeling was so strange, so different from anything he’d ever felt for another person before; now that she wasn’t in front of him in the flesh, he did truly fear he’d dreamt her. But the smell of her clung to him like a dream that he couldn’t shake off. Even his mother had smelled it. And oh no, his mother, who definitely knew he wasn’t telling her something. He didn’t know what in the fuck he’d do about that; he couldn’t imagine a scenario where his mother’s face wouldn’t take on the pallor of death. Madeline Stone.  _I fucked her daughter, I kissed her daughter’s neck and kissed her clit and I kissed her mouth two dozen times in rapture and I’m enchanted with her, I think I’m in love with her and I’m seeing her again tonight and I can’t think of anything else, she’s all I can think of, I want to call her right now and beg her to come to bed with me again, beg her to let me press my mouth into her body again, and I’m not fucking sorry, not sorry at all, not at all, at all--_

“Samuel, Geoffrey Lewis please.”

“Of course, Mr. Shepherd.”

Tailoring was an area of comfort for Duncan. If his clothing was well-tailored, he felt more confident in everything. And he felt in dire need of courage tonight. The idea of seeing Kenzie again was filling his blood with a razor’s-edge of sensation, and everything had to be perfect. It had to be perfect because it was for  _her_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Original Notes:** _CAN’T STOP WON’T STOP okay y’all, buckle up. I’m sorry, first of all, that you don’t get to know what Kenzie’s dress looks like until Part 5. I just really want everyone to see it through Duncan’s eyes with him because he’s a soft Cancer prince and he’s falling hopelessly in love with an angel. A reminder that Claire is my AU version of Coco; Morgan is obviously Myrtle if that’s not immediately obvious. I’m sorry it’s taking so long to get back to pretty smut; Part 5 will be full of it, and patience brings forth riches. It’ll probably take me a few days to write Part 5 because I want it to be perfect, so please be patient and stick with me. I’m really happy with how Part 4 turned out in the meantime, and I had so much fun writing it. Mallory/Coco’s hidden friendship was one of my favorite surprises in APOCALYPSE. I promise to deliver in the CLOTHES department in Part 5 regarding both Mackenzie and Duncan. CLOTHESSS._
> 
>  **AO3 Notes:** _It's sort of funny to me now that I refer to any part of my fic as "smut" above; imo the final product is anything but smut. But one never knows what one has in their hands until it reveals itself. This is a fic idea that became a novel in earnest and with it I proved to myself that I can write whatever the fuck I want. And I also proved to myself that sex does not always equal smut._

Mackenzie stopped outside Duncan’s building, her heart pounding a hundred miles a minute, pressing her clutch between her breasts, the intense and yet not unpleasant sensation of Duncan’s wool cardigan pressing against her back and shoulders, giving her goosebumps. _I’m wearing Duncan Shepherd’s hundred-dollar cardigan. Oh my fucking god._  She tried to take a deep breath, suck the cool May air into her lungs, calm her nerves which were racing along like she was high. She stood outside his high rise, breathing in deeply, breathing out slowly, measuredly, the way her mom had taught her when she was a little girl;  _breathe, Kenzie, just breathe_. Her thoughts flashed to the way he’d knelt there, tying her shoes, looking up at her with liquid blue eyes. Holy  _fuck_  it had thrilled her. It had made her feel like her body was on fire, immersed in liquid heat. Duncan Shepherd had looked at her like she was made of magick, like a prince from a far away land kneeling at the feet of a queen he wished to woo. She couldn’t help but think of all the fairy tales she’d loved as a little girl when it came to Duncan; he looked like a prince, truly a dream boy from a fairy tale, Prince fucking Charming, come to save her from a dragon on a white horse, his curls falling over his forehead, his blue eyes stabbing into her heart, his body wrapping around her, but what she wanted to do with him, what she  _had_  done with him, was far beyond the fairy tales of her girlhood;  _when he put his hand around my neck in the shower_ , she thought, her cunt spasming with the memory of her orgasm.  _Fuck, I want him to do that again. Fuck, his tongue on my clit. Fuck, the way he made me come._

 _Okay, okay, Kenzie, just breathe_ , she reminded herself.

_And you’re fucking going to dinner with him tonight. He asked you to go out with him again tonight. He asked for your phone number, practically begged, after you fucked twice and he ate you out fuck he did and you sucked his cock and he made you fucking breakfast and you told him your mother is Madeline Stone. Duncan FUCKING Shepherd._

She unbuttoned her clutch again, grabbing her phone out (its case was gold, an downwards-facing black crescent moon sticker pressed into the back), staring down at it in a daze for a moment, as if unsure of what it was for, remembering the call he’d pressed through his phone to it a few moments before. A text dinged through, the trumpet-sound ringing twice in a row.  _Kenzie, what happened at that Republican party you were trying to get into last night? Give me an update. Love, Mom_

“Fuck, I forgot,” Mackenzie whispered to herself.  _Hey Mom_ , she typed,  _went okay, you know how that shit is, they’re pigs. But I did manage to pick up some interesting tidbits with my recorder._ She glanced at the little recorder in her clutch, confirming that she hadn’t lost it in the abandon of last night.  _Oh, and I fucked Duncan Shepherd._

She didn’t type the last part, but it slashed through her brain, and she couldn’t help but giggle nervously into her hand. Her mom would think she was joking; her mom had an excellent sense of humor. But no. How the fuck could she tell her mother? No way. Not yet. She didn’t even want to think about what Madeline would say, the look that would fall over her face. She couldn’t even begin to go there. Her body still ached from where Duncan had fucked her with his big, hard cock ( _oh my fucking god_ ) in wild rapture, staring into her eyes like she was cake he was going to devour. Her neck was marked with several darkening welts from his ardent, demanding lips and ached from where the heavy necklace had pressed into the nape all night after she’d passed out. She smelled like his soap, like his musky body, like his clothes (fuck, she was  _wearing_  his clothes). The afterglow of his kisses tingled all over her body, her lips swollen with the memory of his. Those lips. Fucking god. His large, beautiful, long-fingered hands. Everywhere. His eyes, impossibly clear and blue and intense, staring into her soul, laying it bare. It was as if he’d left an invisible tattoo all over her skin and she could feel its tender, shimmering glow, like it was alive.

“Fuuuuck, FUCK,  _holy shit fucking fuck_!” She screamed, bouncing back on her heels, unbalanced. She couldn’t help it. A burst of nervous, wild laughter shot out of her; some pigeons nearby on the sidewalk nervously fluttered into the air, cooing their shock out towards her. A man in a suit with a briefcase walking across the street looked towards her with an annoyed expression, his gaze sliding away as she grinned at him.  _Yes, I am fucking insane,_  she thought towards him.  _I fucked Duncan Shepherd last night and this morning and it’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done and fuck me, I can’t wait to do it again._

She was still clutching her phone in one hand and she jumped as another trumpety text rang out from it.  _Did everything go okay with that shitty party?_  It was Claire.

She yelped, fumbling with her phone and practically dropping it on the sidewalk, frightening the pigeons again. CLAIRE. She had to tell someone, and it had to be Claire. She imagined her best friend’s pink-lipsticked mouth hanging open when she heard what Kenzie had done and could feel the wild grin plastered on her face at the thought.

 _OH MY FUCKING GOD_ , she typed, adding the haunted face emoji and the skull emoji, hitting send. She saw the telltale dot bubbles come up a second later, indicating that Claire was replying.

 **Clairebear:**   _??????? Are you okay???_

Kenzie typed quickly.  _Can you meet me for coffee at Emissary? I have to tell you in person. I’m okay but holy FUCK, something happened. Something insane._

**Clairebear:** _Uhhhhh??!?! YES. I can walk over there now._

_I’m in Georgetown, I’ll be there in 15 minutes._

**Clairebear:**   _KENZIE, WHY ARE YOU IN GEORGETOWN, IT’S 10 AM ASFKHGSDKGHG_

_I’LL TELL YOU IN FIFTEEN MINUTES BITCH_

Mackenzie opened the Lyft app on her phone and was relieved to see a car was two minutes away. She bounced on her heels, feeling dizzy ( _his lips on her neck_ ), heart racing again. Claire was going to lose her fucking shit. And holy  _fuck, I’m seeing him again tonight. He’s picking me up in his fucking private car._ She glanced up at Duncan’s high rise, up to the top floor where she knew his penthouse was, biting her lip in that familiar way she tended to.  _God, I need to remember to look at the view next time between kisses_ , she thought, her cheeks glowing in the early morning sun.

\-----

Kenzie thanked her driver, stepping carefully out of the Prius that had picked her up in front of Duncan’s building; she felt dizzy and ungainly still, as though she might just fall over and not be able to get back up, her limbs shaking.  _Kenzie, be cool. Tell Clairebear what happened._

She pulled the glass door of Emissary (her favorite coffee shop, it helped that it was a few blocks from her apartment in Dupont Circle) wide, eyes searching for Claire’s telltale platinum blonde modern shag and carefully applied lip stain. She zeroed in on her friend at one of the more discreet tables in the side-room (Claire was in knee-high boots, a beanie, and a copious checkered scarf that twisted around her shoulders), and her eyes widened in anticipation. Patrons on their laptops and with books or talking in low tones were scattered around the cafe; thankfully, it seemed busy enough that no one would pay them any particular attention.

She walked up, still feeling shaky, to the counter, ordering a small soy latte, stuffing a five-dollar bill into the tip jar.  _Karma, please be with me_ , she thought,  _every little bit helps_. “Geez, thank you,” the barista (a nonbinary person with a short bob, glasses and a black sweater with a white collar) had said, eyeing the bill, smiling at her. She smiled at them, that nervous energy still humming along under her skin. “I’ll bring it over to you,” the barista said, turning away from her to the espresso machine. “Thank you,” Kenzie murmured, whipping around and sprinting as quickly as she could on those godforsaken heels to Claire’s table.

Claire looked up, eyes wide, as her friend crashed into the seat in front of her.

“Kenzie,” she stated, staring into the smaller girl’s wild eyes ( _god what the fuck is going on there_ ), the way she always did when her best friend had done something dangerous or impulsive and had this deer-in-headlights look. Usually it had to do with a story, of course. Kenzie was an excellent journalist, and she was always putting herself in strange positions to get the best angle on a story. But this seemed to be something else.

“ _Claireohmygodfuckinghellohmyfuckinggod_ ,” Mackenzie breathed, words blending to the point where they became nonsense.

Claire reached out to her, snorting, smiling nervously, grabbing her friend’s small hand. She noted that Kenzie wasn’t wearing any makeup, that her hair still looked a little bit damp, that she was  _clearly_  wearing last night’s dress and heels, and that she was wearing a black cardigan that was much too big for her and was clearly cut for a man. Claire’s eyes flickered to Kenzie’s neck, where she saw several telltale red marks.  _Oh, my god._

“Kenzie. What did you do. Tell me right now.”

“Claire, don’t get mad. Promise you won’t get mad at me.”

“ _Kenzie_.”

Kenzie steeled herself, ( _deja vu_ , she thought,  _I just did that with Duncan when I told him my mother’s name_ ), grasping her friend’s hand with cold fingers.

“Duncan Shepherd was at that party last night. I--I went home with him.”

Just as she’d imagined, Claire’s mouth fell open in a gigantic oval, her bright eyes blinking rapidly in disbelief. “ _WHAT_.”

“ _Clairebear_ , oh my god. I don’t even know how to tell you. He’s nothing like what you’d imagine. God, he was so wonderful. God, he’s so hot. He was so gentle and beautiful, you wouldn’t believe. I’ve never felt like that before. God, you should see his penthouse, it’s insane, he made me fucking breakfast, Claire--”

“MACKENZIE.”

“CLAIRE,  _DON’T BE MAD AT ME_.”

“ _Duncan Shepherd_?” Her friend hissed at her quietly. “ _The_  Duncan Shepherd? Annette Shepherd’s son? Annette Shepherd who owns ten of the most prominent centrist publications in the country?  _Shepherd Freedom Foundation_  Duncan Shepherd? Mackenzie Louise Stone, are you out of your fucking  _mind_!”

“Claire. He wants to see me again tonight.”

“Kenzie, oh my fucking  _god_.”

“He wants to pick me up in his private car.”

“KENZIE.”

“Claire, I’ve never had an orgasm like that in my whole fucking life.  _Two_  orgasms like that.” She whispered the last part, leaning in close to her friend’s raptly staring face. “His  _eyes_. He’s so tall and so fucking gorgeous and his smile, fuck, I almost died.”

Claire tried to hide her smile behind her hand, bringing her matcha up to her mouth to stifle the laugh that Kenzie could see behind her eyes.

“Who are you and where did you take my Kenzie Stone?”

“I know. I don’t know. I can’t explain. He’s so fucking gorgeous in person, Claire. I’ve never see anyone as beautiful him, ever. He looks at me like I’m made of cake or something. His eyes, they’re like blue crystals,  _god_ , the way he kissed me--”

She took a breath, watching her friend’s face, which was rapidly running a gamut, strange mixture of happiness and concern.

“Are you wearing his fucking sweater.”

“Yes. He insisted. Clairebear. I don’t know what’s happening to me. He made me feel like...I don’t know how to describe how it felt. He’s so lovely. It was like a dream.”

“ _Lovely_? Jesus, Kenzie.”

“His dick, oh my  _god_.”

Claire tried to stifle her snort of laughter again as the barista came over with Kenzie’s latte. Kenzie pressed her lips together, trying to keep a straight face, thanking them. They nodded, walking back towards the coffee counter. Claire was still staring at her, her eyes goggling, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth, shaking her head.

“I bet he fucks a new girl every night, Kenzie. Guys like that are notorious.”

“I--Claire.”

“Kenzie, I do  _not_  want you to get fucked over by some idiot rich boy. Like, jesus. I’m shocked...and appalled.” She grinned at the last part, though. Clearly, Claire was excited over what Mackenzie had just confessed to her. She was trying--and obviously failing--to be the sensible one. A snort of amusement bubbled under her words and as she and Kenzie stared at each other, they both burst in laughter.

“Claire, what the fuck do I  _wear_  tonight.”

“Honestly, it sounds like it doesn’t matter. He’s already seen you in your birthday suit.”

“Clairebear. It was like a fairy tale. I can’t believe it happened. I smell like his soap. Like his cologne. It was like...wood and...I don’t know.”

Claire reached out, grabbing Mackenzie’s wrist, bringing it up to her nose. “Fuck,” she breathed. “That smells fucking good. Like sandalwood and jasmine.” 

“I  _know_.”

“If he does a single thing to hurt you, I will break his fucking jaw.” Claire held fast to her wrist, shaking it in a display of motherly scolding. “You know I trust you with my life, Kenzie. You know I trust your judgement. I’m gonna trust you here. But please be careful, jesus. Men like that are living in a different universe. A bizarre one where the laws of life and decency don’t apply to them. And that shit makes me nervous. And Annette Shepherd is  _terrifying_. Even watching her on TV gives me the creeps.”

“Claire, I promise, I’ll be careful. Clairebear. Oh my  _god. Fuckfuckfuck_.”

Kenzie saw a warm smile fall over her friend’s open face. “I cannot believe you, bitch,” Claire said, reaching over and grabbing Mackenzie by the shoulders, shaking her gently. “God, that’s a nice cardigan. What about your mom? Holy shit.”

“I know. Do  _not_  tell her, swear. Cross your heart.”

Claire crossed her right pointer finger over her ribcage, marking the spot with an X.

“You should see his walk-in closet. I thought I was gonna faint.”

“I better meet this idiot soon.”

“Claire, I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Kenzie Lou. Please be fucking careful. Oh my god.”

\-----

Kenzie pushed through the door of her studio apartment, throwing her clutch in a moment of abandon across the room where it landed on her futon’s duvet, covered in constellations. Now that she was back in her little room, she wondered in awe if she’d dreamt all of it. But no. Here she was in his cardigan, bathing in the musky smell of him, totally intoxicated. She brought the arms of the sweater up to her nose, breathing in deeply. It made her dizzy. It made her think of his lips on her neck. His tongue in her mouth. His hands around her breasts, his cock pounding into her--

“Breathe, motherfucker, breathe,” she told herself. Claire was right. She would need to try to be sensible about all of this. The Shepherds were one of the most powerful families in the country, let alone in Washington. They could fuck you up in a heartbeat and throw away the key. The thought of Annette Shepherd staring her down with judging, sharp eyes made an icy chill course through her veins.

 _Maybe tonight is the last time I’ll see him, anyway_ , she thought, trying to be practical.  _Maybe he just wants more of what he got last night, and nothing else. You have to admit that might be true._

But then she remembered the way he’d looked up at her while he tied her sandals this morning; the way he’d slammed his coffee cup onto the counter with so much force it broke, and reached for her hand, holding it so tenderly. The way he’d pulled her into him, with such tender longing, tried to catch hold of her to kiss her again as she’d slipped out the door.  _Some men are really good at faking it,_  her mother’s voice leaked into her ears.  _Some will do whatever it takes to get what they want, and that includes fucking you over to fuck you._

 _But maybe not_ , she argued with the imaginary version of her mother in her head.  _Maybe he’s different. I have to at least let it play out. After last night, I have to, mom. If you were me, you’d do the same thing. That was the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me with another person. That felt like the look that comes into people’s eyes when they talk about soulmates. That was something else. He got into my heart. I can’t deny it. I’m already falling for him._

_Oh, fuck._

Kenzie’s apartment, small as it was, was full of green falling plants and succulents, sun, moon and star motifs everywhere, from the moon cycle tapestry hanging over the door to the bathroom, to the triple moon goddess symbol she’d painted on one wall in shimmering gold, to the sun wind chime over her bed and the matching moon and star chimes that hung over her little kitchenette, little pots of succulents lining the window sills. Dozens of jars of herbs and spices lined her countertop; she saved jam jars and labeled them in her looping handwriting, some of which she’d grown herself in the shared lot behind her apartment complex. She loved the earth, being near it, nurturing it, seeing what gifts it would give her in return. She wondered if Duncan would accept a plant from her if she gave him one. She’d noticed he hadn’t had anything growing in his penthouse; wondered absently if he was too busy to look after plants. _I could take care of them_ , the thought bubbled up in her subconscious, shyly.  _I would love to have so much room. I’d fill it with so many living things. I’d love to take care of them for him; a little love letter from me to him. A secret one._

She fell into her ratty armchair, a chair her mother Madeline had had since she moved into her first apartment before she’d met Madeline’s father (Richard Mapother, a successful film critic, but he and Madeline’s marriage had been short-lived after Mackenzie was born; she seldom saw her father as he lived in LA now, presiding critic for  _Empire_ magazine; Madeline had gone back to her maiden name after their divorce, had Mackenzie’s surname changed on her birth certificate, and kept it through her second marriage, which had also ended badly, this one after only a few months; he had been a fellow journalist at the  _Post_ , and it had caused a scandal). This chair Mackenzie had demanded to keep when her mother had thought about throwing it away; it had once been dark brown, but was now fraying to the point that it its color had begun to wash away. She’d covered it with a thick woven blanket covered in constellations, similar to her bedspread. Mackenzie thought of Duncan’s long leather couch, ominously immaculate and stern, and she let out a sigh.  _I’m sure he’d be impressed with my armchair._

Here, in the daylight, she wondered what she’d been thinking last night. She’d been so angry and annoyed after a Senator she recognized (for his infamous misogyny, no less) had attempted to chat her up at that terrible party, and she’d managed to escape onto the balcony, her nerves rattled. But the way Duncan had looked at her; she shivered recalling it. It wasn’t just desire. There was something else there.  _Wonder?_  He had looked at her in awe. The look in his eyes had been one of fascination. Dare she even think it; of reverence. It made goosebumps rise on her arms, made her heart thump in her throat, at her temples. She launched herself out of the sagging armchair, grabbing a glass out of her little cabinet, filling it with water from the tap, and draining the whole thing. She looked down at her shoes; those painful heeled sandals that Duncan had untied and re-tied with such gentle adoration.  _God, the way he looked at me_ , she swallowed, sighed, set the glass down, leaning against the counter, pushing a hand through her now almost-dry hair, moving her hands to unhook the crystal earrings from her earlobes, setting them down quietly, pensively.  _I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Like I was the stars in the sky._

“ _To the mystery of first meetings_ ,” he’d said. His sweet, low voice rang in the memory of her ears.  _Baby. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Kenzie. I love that._

“I could love him,” she said out loud, to no one. Her cat, Holt, had died over a year ago, and she hadn’t had the heart to get another; she’d buried him in her herb garden in the backyard. “If he could love me, I could love him. I don’t even know him, but I think I could. I can’t have imagined it. I didn’t imagine him. I can’t have invented the way he looked at me; the way he touched me. The way he spoke to me.”

She blushed; also to no one. She would keep that secret in her heart, for now. No matter what happened, she’d keep last night and this morning in her secret heart, always.

She stepped over to her futon bed, sitting on the edge, pulling her clutch over to her from where it had landed on her pillows, pulling her phone out and setting it on her lap, leaning down to unlace her sandals. She paused, her fingers against the laces, remembering his large hands there, his long elegant fingers, pressing ardently into her skin. She almost didn’t want to take the shoes off; it was almost as if she would break some kind of spell he’d weaved there if she did, break the spell of the evening, bring her crashing back into reality. But she unlaced them anyway, biting her lip, pulling her feet out of their trappings, remembering that last night he’d kissed the red marks the laces had left on her ankles, and she shivered again, brought the cardigan’s long sleeves to her face again, feeling as though, for some reason, she could cry.

Her phone was still on silent, but through misty eyes she noticed the screen light up on her lap. She looked down, pushing the sudden tears away, banishing them behind her eyes, which, though she could not see them herself, glowed with a similar dark green shade as the one they’d turned last night, looking down at Duncan between her legs. She flipped the sound switch on the side of the phone.

_You left your necklace in the bathroom and your headband on the nightstand. I can give them back to you tonight. I can’t wait to see you, Kenzie._

“Oh, fuck,” she muttered. Now he probably thought she’d left them behind on purpose. She’d been so dazed, so dizzy in his embraces, she’d felt like she was on some other plane, in some other world, and she’d forgotten her jewelry utterly.

 _Ugh, sorry_. She typed, biting into her lip.  _I didn’t mean to do that. You were distracting me._ She couldn’t help it. She was honest to a fault, and that was the truth.

Her heart jumped around in her chest as she watched the telltale text bubbles appear for a moment. They disappeared. Then reappeared. She didn’t notice, but she was holding her breath.

_I’d keep them forever if it meant I’d see you again. I want to distract you again. And again. And again._

“ _Oh my fucking god_ ,” she whispered to herself, hands gripping the phone with white fingers.

She typed something, erased it, and then retyped it. She closed her eyes, and hit send. No takebacks. It was gone. She did it.

_I want you to._

She stared at her phone, breathless, for a few moments. No text bubbles appeared. The moment stretched; became a minute. She had to breathe; she felt the tightness around her heart.

Then, the text bubbles appeared.

She stared, her eyes still cast with that greenish hue she couldn’t see, her phone grasped between her fingers in her lap, her feet bare, her hair smelling of Duncan’s jasmine soap.

_I am waiting for tonight with an ache in my heart for you that I’ve never felt before for anyone._

She read the text. Again. Again. Five times, six times, her breath catching in her lungs, refusing to come out, filling her mind with a sound like angels singing at the gates of heaven. Duncan Shepherd had just sent that to her. Reality no longer made any sense. She resolved deep inside her soul that she was going to let this happen to her. Come what may, the hand of destiny was pressing down on her. A sixth sense spoke to her:  _now is not the time to play it safe. Open yourself to this. Let this happen to you. To live is to love. That’s all there is._

“Okay,” she whispered. She typed one more time.

_Duncan, I feel the same way. You’ve touched my heart._

The text came back right away.

_See you at 9. Tonight, everything is for you._

She laid back onto her blanket of constellations, her head falling between the lower arms of Cancer, Iota Cancri extending into the heavens above her, Acubens and Altarf on either side of her chestnut waves, adorning her temples like a crown.  _Everything is for you._

\-------

She woke a little later, her phone dinging its trumpet sound out again into her little apartment, her eyes falling on the sun-shaped celestial wind chime that hung beside her bed. She liked to listen to its soft rustling at night; it helped her sleep now, a unique white noise that she had become attached to. She grasped the phone, heart pounding again; an hour had passed, she hadn’t even realized she had fallen asleep, there had been so much adrenaline coursing through her since this morning, she must have crashed particularly hard.

The text was from Claire. She swallowed, pushing down the disappointed feeling that rose unbidden under her skin.  _You’re seeing him in a few hours, calm down._

**Clairebear:** _Kenzie Lou, I found the perfect dress for you tonight._

Claire worked for a designer; her name was Morgan Winthrop, and her work was dark, beautiful, and romantic. The velvet dress Mackenzie had worn last night to that terrible ( _wonderful, fateful_ ) party had been a sample piece from Winthrop’s collection from the previous fall. “I thought of you right away when I saw it,” Claire had said, holding it up to the warm evening light of her stylish living room over their Chinese takeout. Mackenzie trusted Claire more than anyone, and knew her best friend understood her taste and her body; if Claire said she had found her a perfect dress, Mackenzie believed her.

A photo followed the text. Kenzie gasped. Claire hadn’t been kidding.

It was perfect.

\------

Kenzie glanced down at her phone with fingers that refused to stop shaking. It was 8 PM. One hour. She turned back to her bathroom mirror (surrounded by small prints of celestial scenes and constellations in gold-painted frames), trying to steady the hand that was applying kohl under her hazel eyes, which looked far too big and worried and round in her little bathroom mirror.  _Kenzie. What are you doing. What’s happening_. She blew a shaking breath out;  _just get your shit together, you can do this. You can be calm and collected. You can be a goddess._

No, I can’t.

_You can._

Her little bluetooth speaker sat on top of her toilet tank, the only steady, non-damp place for it. An angelic soprano’s voice rang from it, soothing her shaking fingers.  _And I, I feel it after midnight, a feelin’ that you can’t fight / my one, it lingers when we’re done, you’ll believe God is a Woman_

She’d gone to Morgan’s studio after Claire’s text; Morgan had been pleased to see her and fit the dress for her. “Darling, you’re a muse, your coquettish charm is indescribably lovely,” Morgan had cooed to her, gloved hands beckoning to her, Morgan’s wild, frizzy orange hair catching the afternoon light from the windows of her open-spaced studio with its black-and-white striped walls. “I’m delighted to fit you for a romantic evening, you of all people deserve joy.” Mackenzie had looked down shyly at her words; if only Morgan knew what would probably be happening to the dress later, tossed to the floor. She stood in front of the long mirror quietly as Morgan pinned and prodded with agile practice; as she watched, the dress melded to her body like a second skin.

“Ravishing,” Morgan had stated, matter-of-factly, as she stood back to gaze at Mackenzie through the mirror. Claire looked on from a little further away, seated on a bench, watching as she had for the past hour or so. “Oh, Kenzie,” she breathed. “He’ll die.”

_And he see the universe when I’m the company / it’s all in me_

Kenzie set down the kohl pencil, reaching for the choker she’d placed carefully on the side of the sink. It was black velvet, with a downwards-facing crescent moon charm hanging from the throat, similar to the one on the back of her phone case. She fastened it around her neck, her thoughts flashing back to Duncan’s hands there, pressing with their impossible soft heat, thrilling every nerve ending in her body, like they belonged there. She stared at herself in the small mirror.

 _Fortune favors the bold_ , she thought, staring into her own eyes. Yet another one of her mother’s sayings.

 _Make me bold_ , she whispered silently, out into the universe, to whoever was listening, if anyone was at all.  _Give me a heart made of light, the better to see with, the better to feel with, give me the heart to see him. And give him the heart to see me. Give us both courage to say the things we feel._

She felt that indescribable heaviness again; like the giant wheel of time was turning on some far-flung stage of the universe, a colossal event that she couldn’t see; she could only feel it. She could only hang on and hope. Kenzie took another breath, shook out her long chestnut hair (adorned with another gold headband, this one with three moons, waxing, full, and waning), turned off the bathroom light, and went to her mother’s ratty armchair to wait for the clock to strike 9, the music still ringing in her ears.

_You’ll believe God / God is a Woman_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Original Notes:** _[The Youth of Bacchus](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d6/William-Adolphe_Bouguereau_%281825-1905%29_-_The_Youth_of_Bacchus_%281884%29.jpg) is listed publicly as being part of a “private collection”, so AU-fictionally-speaking, who knows, it could theoretically belong to the Shepherds. I’ve been meaning to feature Beethoven’s MOONLIGHT SONATA in some kind of story for ages, as I’ve loved it all my life (I listened to [this version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sbTVZMJ9Z2I&list=RDsbTVZMJ9Z2I&start_radio=1) a lot while I wrote this part). I had to include a little nod to my fellow Sagittarius, Jane Austen, with her famous line, spoken by Darcy to Lizzie in a moment of passionate abandon, from PRIDE & PREJUDICE (“you have bewitched me, body and soul”), though the title of my fic came originally from the song Hypnotised by Years & Years, as I’ve mentioned before. I mirrored the “breathing” advice from their mothers on purpose. That moment Kenzie stares at Duncan with tears in her eyes over dinner was my homage to that gif floating around of Mallory looking across the table (I always imagine she’s looking at Michael). I’m learning some fascinating stuff from my research for this fic, including the fact that in order to be issued a Black AmEx (“Centurion Card”) you need a special invitation and are required to pay an initiation fee of $7500 with an annual fee of $2500. Rumor has it (it hasn’t been confirmed on record) that Black Card holders need a net worth of around $16 million to qualify. I also learned that Bordeaux goes well with duck a l’orange, which, as a vegetarian, is a thing I probably would have never known otherwise. The line “Then I must be thy lady, but I know / When thou hast stolen away from fairy land” is from Shakespeare’s A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. The Bouguereau cunnilingus I came up with in my sleep last night and I’m totally in love with it. His painting [EVENING MOOD](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/17/Bouguereau-Evening_Mood_1882.jpg) (which Duncan thinks of when Kenzie is standing there naked in the candlelight) is enshrined at the Museum of Fine Arts, in Cuba. I’m so proud of this part; I worked really hard on it and put a lot of my own emotions into it. I’m proud of what I’ve written here and what I’ve done so far with this story, and that’s a wonderful feeling. If anyone else wants to do visual edits or moodboards for the fic, I’d be so thrilled. The one [@nat-de-lioncourt](https://nat-de-lioncourt.tumblr.com/) made ([here](https://witchqueenofdarkness.tumblr.com/post/182795802960/body-and-soul-masterpost-complete)) made me ecstatically happy. And as ever, if you’re reading and enjoying, your comments mean everything to me._
> 
> _**AO3 Notes:** EVENING MOOD now hangs over my bed. THE YOUTH OF BACCHUS now hangs in my living room. A reminder that I'm compiling a [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2hk9UxmmwT7uu8YgAfilCA?si=dAb2nqtnRsaL_TFfIHnkKA) playlist for the fic with every song I used as inspiration/every song I mention in the story._

Duncan felt as though his spirit was trying to break free from his body. He was leaning against the obsidian counter in his spotless kitchen, his sleek black phone clutched in his hands, tapping it every now and again to check the time, quiet strains of classical music coming from the turntable in the corner of his office; Beethoven’s  _Moonlight Sonata_. He fiddled with the cufflinks of his shirt again; they were rose gold with black onyx stones. He ran his fingers down his Balmain one-button velvet jacket, breathing deep, letting it out at a measured pace, re-adjusting the collar of his black shirt, though it had already been perfectly straight. Annette had taught him to breathe carefully from the time she had begun to bring him to public events with her when he was still in elementary school. “ _Never let them see your nervousness_ ,” she had insisted, holding his small hand in hers, pushing at his back so he’d stand straight. “ _These people feed on weakness, and you must appear to be untouchable them. Breathe until your fear fades away. You can’t use it where you’re going.”_

Oddly, he often thought it was the best advice his mother had ever given him.  _You can’t use it where you’re going_ ; as if his destiny was to do something great, no matter his own doubts about himself. She had always said it with absolute conviction. He knew his mother loved him. That was an absolute, unshakeable truth.  _Maybe she could accept Kenzie, because I think I love her_. He brought his hand to his chin in that familiar tick, running his right index and middle fingers over his bottom lip. That thought had come unbidden, like a tide to the shore.  _God. I think I do. I don’t know her yet, but I think I love her. It’s so strange._

He made himself breathe out again, focusing his attention on the strains of the Sonata’s first movement; it had always made him think of the dead of night, some abandoned moor far from civilization, bathed in the glow of the moon and a universe full of a million stars hovering above, looking down on the tiny rock of humanity with a studied, sympathetic indifference.  _Wretched humankind_ , he thought, moving slowly to the study, _all alone in an empty cosmos_. It was a thought he’d had many times before, but this time, oddly, his resolute conviction in it faltered.  _Maybe alone. Maybe not_. His eyes fell over the painting that stretched, colossal, against the wall facing his desk.

It was Bouguereau's  _The Youth of Bacchus_. His mother had bought it for him for his 18th birthday: yes, the original. The Shepherds had a net worth of over 3 billion, and she had insisted he needed a legitimate piece when he’d moved into his penthouse alone. He’d always loved it; _“it reminds me of when you were a boy and I bought you those mythology books you’d read for hours and hours,”_  Annette had said, her finger stroking his cheek. He’d gone through a period in his adolescence where he was obsessed with Greek and Roman mythology; had practically every book ever published on the subject, most of them still on his study shelves, though Edith Hamilton’s was always his favorite. He had gazed at the bacchanalia depicted in the painting countless times, its naked, dancing figures, feverish in their revelry; sometimes he would come here and sit in the leather chair behind the mahogany desk, just to stare at it until whatever vinyl he’d placed on the turntable wound down to silence. It had always been odd to him that though the painting referred to Bacchus’ youth (he, the god of hedonism), he was depicted as a pot-bellied old man in it, teetering on a donkey. Duncan had long-ago decided that Bouguereau meant it in reference to Bacchus’  _spirit_ , his  _essence_ , one of endless mischief and debauchery. He thought back on the many nights he’d indulged in debauchery himself; the women and men he’d taken into his bed, careless to know their names, content with the pleasures of the flesh, rarely feeling the impulse to see them again. When your mother was Annette Shepherd, you could afford to pay off any troublesome, tiresome attentions. Duncan found that though he’d often felt lust, any experience he’d had until last night had not deigned to come close to the wild, somehow almost painful, intoxicating energy he’d felt when Mackenzie Stone was in his arms. It was as if he’d never known what passion truly was until the moment he’d kissed her, her mouth opening to him; hadn’t understood the winding way of the universe at all until she’d been under him, her sweet whisper in his ear, her small hands on his skin, around his length, in his hair. Her smell, her touch, her presence was like waking up for the first time on a cool spring morning after winter, seeing the sunlight course over some distant hill, watching auburn clouds float into the ether as dawn kissed the world. She had reminded him, or perhaps made him realize truly for the first time, that being alive was miraculous indeed; and he wanted the feeling again, the grip of  _the desire to live_.  _And that was passion_ , he thought. Passion was her eyes, where he’d seen her soul floating behind them, seeing  _his_ , as though they’d been long lost from each other, and now, finally, had found each other again, through time.

_Bewitched, body and soul_ , he thought, and he could not remember what the line was from.  _God, but that’s how I feel._  He’d considered himself a staunch atheist since he was little more than a child, but something about this woman, this wondrous angel so she seemed, made his resolve falter for the first time in memory.  _Maybe there is something out there_ , he thought, surprising himself, a shiver falling down his spine under the weight of his velvet jacket, the C-sharp minor of the Sonata boring into his mind.  _She exists, and she is some kind of miracle, so maybe something is. Fuck._  It was as if someone else had entered his body since last night; the better version of himself, desperate to be good enough for her, desperate to hope for a world where she truly existed, and was not some free-falling fantasy of his own invention.

He fiddled with his onyx cufflinks, clearing his throat, moving to where he kept a small bar cart beside the table the record player rested on, an ornate, priceless Tiffany lamp beside it. He poured a finger of bourbon and drank it down, wiping his lips on the back of his hand as the final strokes of the first movement ended. He glanced at his watch (the Cartier again); it was 8:20 PM. It was time to go; time to go to  _her_.

Surprising himself again, he thought out a silent prayer for the first time since he was a boy: _if anyone is out there, give me courage_.

\------

Samuel shut the door behind Duncan as he slid into the backseat of the black BMW. Duncan felt as though he could jump out of his skin at any moment; his resolve was trembling, and the feeling was truly putting him off-guard.  _Am I actually good enough for this woman?_  The thought flitted across his mind and he felt utterly shaken by it, as though someone else had invaded his mind. But he knew the thought was his own. He knew he was truly wondering what he’d done to deserve her in his bed, enraptured, the euphoria of her seeping into his senses. He couldn’t believe he was about to see her again. His body felt like it was vibrating, the bourbon he had drunk to calm his nerves giving them an edge instead, an overwhelming intensity.

“Are you alright, Mr. Shepherd?” Samuel was sitting in the driver’s seat again, peering at Duncan over his glasses, a combination of concern and amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Samuel, I need your good thoughts tonight,” Duncan replied, his guard down. “I need all the help I can get. I’m enamoured with this woman. I’m crazy about her.”

“Let your heart be your guide, Mr. Shepherd.” Samuel held his gaze for a moment, and then looked down, toward the stretch of asphalt in front of Duncan’s high rise. The car moved forward, streamlined, humming quietly, toward Duncan’s destiny.

\----

Duncan had texted Mackenzie again a few hours before; after the conversation during which she’d gazed at her phone in awe, falling into the constellation of Cancer on her bed, unbeknownst to him. He’d asked for her address; it was now programmed into Samuel’s GPS, so he could see the minutes counting down to their arrival. He took another deep breath; let it out in a steady stream, opposing thumb pressing into his palm; his eyes, sapphire-like, gazed out the window, reflecting the glowing lights of a Washington evening. He thought of Kenzie in her little black dress, her ankles wrapped in laces, the crystal floating at her throat, her eyes, gazing at him, full of hidden emotion. Her voice rising in his shower;  _baby, I want you to come_. He closed his eyes and his head, crowned in curls, fell back on the leather seat.  _God, her fingers in mine, her hard little nipples and sweet clit in my mouth and the feeling of her body clenching around mine, how was that real, how is it still all so real and yet like a dream, the smell of vetiver and her skin, her moans, her hair glowing in the light over the bed--_

“Mr. Shepherd, we’re here.”

His eyes snapped open, an involuntary fear rising in them. They’d pulled up to an apartment complex, relatively modern, with glass doors leading to an entryway and the doors of the inner apartments visible within.

_Kenzie._

“Here I go.”

Samuel nodded, the wry smile playing around his mouth again.

“Mr. Shepherd.”

For the breadth of a heartbeat, Duncan paused, then he pushed the door of the BMW open and stepped onto the sidewalk. Apartment 1R was Mackenzie’s; she’d texted even her apartment number to him. She was trusting him with it, and he understood this innately. He straightened his Balmain jacket (already straight), rubbed the finger into his palm again, ran that nervous, constant hand against his bottom lip, and walked to the glass door, pulling it open. The second door was locked; he saw a neat row of buzzers beside it, each with a tile clearly printed with apartment numbers underneath. 1R. Stone. He breathed in again, long and low, and pressed the buzzer.

He held the breath as the moment hung there, unmoving.

Then a buzzing sound emanated from the foyer where he stood; he pulled the second door open.

Inside, there were four apartments in a long row, and a corner where the hallway turned towards more apartments along the next wall. He walked (wearing black Saint Laurent Wyatt boots tonight, the buckles hidden beneath the hem of his tailored slacks) to the end, where the corner began; 1R. A gold crescent moon ornament, hung from a small nail and a gold-painted, braided length of rope, shimmered in the hallway light against the door. There was a one-sided peephole facing him; he stared at it for a moment; he breathed again, and then he knocked.

An aching pause again; and then she opened the door.

Mackenzie stood there, her chestnut waves falling down over her shoulders and her back ( _moons along her head_ , he thought, stunned,  _moonlight in her hair_ ), and she met his gaze, her hazel eyes aglow with silent fire, though her expression was full of apprehension she clearly had not been able to conceal. He went to speak, but his breath seemed caught in his lungs; he looked at her and his heart was struck with a quiver of aching need. Her mouth was darkly colored; her eyelids were dark, black kohl around her eyes; tonight she was like the hidden face of the moon, and he was immediately beguiled, under her spell.

She was wearing a dress that seemed to be cut out of the air itself; its neckline plunged down through the space between her breasts, coming together beneath them in a deep V, the skin there luminous in the light ( _I want to kiss that skin now_ ); it was black like the dress she’d been wearing the night before, but it had long sleeves that came down to past her wrists, pointing towards her knuckles. It had been tailored to her small waist, tailored so it hugged against the rise of her chest and the elegant inclines of her arms, and then it fell from her hips, in waves of more silken velvet an inch above her knee, waves he wanted to kneel into, bury himself inside. Knee-high heeled boots stretched along her slender legs ( _the legs whose ankles I kissed, their redness building an ache in me_ , he thought), their toes coming to points, but the stretch of skin between where the boots began and her skirt ended was entrancing to him; he wanted to press his mouth there and move it up between her legs again; he ached at the thought. Around her neck was a velvet choker ( _my hands there my lips on her mouth_ ), and hanging from it was a black inverted moon, its crescent points hanging down towards her shoulder blades. The sight of it sent a cool chill along the back of his neck; it seemed an omen, occult and knowing, a feminine eye that knew him and could see all of his secrets. He resigned himself to this; _I would tell her anything_. And he knew it was true.

“ _Kenzie_ ,” he said breathlessly, overwhelmed. She was real. He hadn’t dreamt her; not last night, not this morning, when her light scattered along the hall as she ran away from him. And she was beautiful beyond all words to him; her realness, her weight, her beauty, within and without, shining like a darkened star in the twilight.

“God, you look beautiful.”

“So do you,” a nervous smile spread over her little mouth, and he thought of  _honey, roses, wine, the sweetness of your soul, Kenzie_ \--and he moved forward, his lips capturing hers, his hands burying themselves in her cascade of hair, and he felt lost for a moment, lost in the tangibility of touching her again, full of relief at her reality. “You’re real,” he whispered into her mouth; he couldn’t stop. “You’re real, and I didn’t dream you.” He breathed in her smell; her perfume was the same.  _Vetiver, geranium, roses._  He wanted to drink it like nectar.

“I know. I was afraid of the same thing. That I’d imagined you.” Her little face was turned up to him, and her darkly-shadowed eyes glistened with moisture. He was filled with a terrible fear that she would begin to cry; he felt a twinge around his heart, a wrenching horror at the idea of her sadness.

“I’m here.” He pressed his forehead into hers for a moment, his fingers trailing through her hair, his eyes closing, overwhelmed. “We’re both here. Everything was real. Everything is real. This is real.”

Her little hands went around his wrists for a moment as he held her, twining her fingers through his on either side of her face, clutching him to her, and he felt a burst of energy, as if her sweetness, her care, her nature of goodness, seeped through her into him, bathing him in warmth, and then she stepped away, out of his grasp. “Take me to dinner, Duncan Shepherd. I’m fucking starving.” She smiled again,  _like honey,_  he thought, and he smiled back at her (he watched her face blush towards him at his smile and his heart clenched again), and then he grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her through the door, his fingers pressing into her, the warmth of hand spreading into him like the glow of home after a long, cold walk in the dark.

\-----

Duncan grasped Mackenzie’s little hand as she slid into the backseat of the BMW, her eyes meeting Samuel’s through his rearview mirror as they always did Duncan’s. Duncan could see the smile in Samuel’s eyes; he was delighted. Duncan slid in beside her and pulled the door shut, anxious to be near her; Kenzie looked so unbelievably beautiful, he felt dazed, blinded, disoriented once again, wistful for them to be alone together.

“Samuel--this is Mackenzie Stone.”

Duncan watched the clouded patina that immediately came into Samuel’s usually clear brown eyes. “Stone. You wouldn’t be Madeline Stone’s daughter now, would you?”

Kenzie put her chin up, meeting Samuel’s gaze through the mirror, bringing her hands together in her lap over her little purse (it was different than the clutch she’d had at the party; this one had a strap to go over her shoulder, and a gold buckle shaped like a crescent moon, this one facing in a waxing direction). Duncan felt a sort of fierce pride wash over him as he gazed at her lovely, shadowed face, the blush of her cheek and the incline of her neck.  _She’s brave; she’s honest. She’s so easy to fall in love with._

“I am.”

Samuel didn’t miss a beat, letting his concern slide away. Duncan silently thanked him. “Delighted to finally meet you, Miss Stone. Duncan has said only the best of you.”

“He doesn’t know me that well yet,” she laughed a little, glancing at Duncan, and he was full suddenly to the brim with the desire to hold her, kiss her again, melt into her. Samuel chuckled with her, his very white teeth flashing, his eyes dancing behind his square glasses. He liked her very much; Duncan could tell.  _How could you not_ , Duncan thought.  _Look at her._

“I can’t wait to know you more,” he said to her, Samuel’s watchful eye be damned. He reached to her lap and grasped her hand, looking at her carefully. He wanted her to see how sincerely he meant what he was saying. “I want to know you more than anything.” Kenzie looked at him, her hazel eyes taking on that strange dark hue again, and then she looked down at his hands, as if she felt overwhelmed by his gaze. Samuel’s attention seemed to strategically slide away from them; Duncan didn’t even need to ask him, the partition between the front and back seats rolled up languidly, almost absent-mindedly, and the car moved forward. By the time it arrived in front of Le Diplomate, Duncan and Kenzie were breathless, eyes glittering, breath hitching from the wild locking of their mouths, and Duncan’s lips were smeared with her dark lipstick. She put her delicate thumb up to his mouth as the car stopped, to wipe it away; Duncan captured the finger in his mouth, and sucked at it for a moment, lost in the ecstasy of her touch, the taste of her.

“ _Duncan_ ,” she whispered, the longing in her voice inconcealable. “My lipstick is all over you.”

“Good. I want it there.”

She smiled at him, and he couldn’t hold back the moan; “ _Kenzie, baby_ ,” he tried to kiss her again, his mouth hovering over hers, but she pulled away, the smile turning mischievous, and he knew she was watching the yearning in his gaze and his body with satisfaction; she quickly wiped the stain from his mouth before he could bite her finger again, and pulled her hand away.

“Later,” she said, their eyes meeting, and the core of his body tingled, as if touched by a live wire. “Later, I belong to you.” A chill coursed down his spine. He wanted to press his mouth between her legs and make her scream again. He wanted to press his face into the hollow of her neck, buried inside her. But patience was a virtue. He owed her his patience.

The partition went down, languidly; “Samuel, I’ll text you when we need the car. Thank you,” Duncan said. Samuel replied with the smile still dancing on his features, his bright eyes on Mackenzie. “Certainly, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Thank you, Samuel,” Kenzie said shyly, smiling back at him sweetly.

“It is truly a pleasure, Miss Stone,” Samuel replied, and she grinned.

Duncan helped her from the backseat, his large hand grasping her small fingers with fervent attention. “I like him very much,” she said to him quietly, smoothing her dress nervously; his other hand came around and felt at her waist, moving up and down for a moment, lost in the soft feeling of her, steadying her. “He likes you too,” he replied, bringing his face close to her again, breathing in her intoxicating scent. “Samuel’s worked for my family since before I was born, and I trust him with my life. I know when he likes or dislikes someone right away. He thought you were lovely. And you are. You’re the loveliest person I’ve ever met.”

He couldn’t stop himself; the words tumbled out of him, fervently.

“God, Duncan,” she said, her hair shimmering in the lamps outside the entrance, her breath sweet against his face, her eyes glowing, hypnotizing him in their ethereal embrace. “How are you so wonderful?”

“Kenzie, it’s for you. It’s all for you. Anything you want, I want to give it to you.”

She laughed. “Right now, I want dinner. And a glass of wine. That would be nice.”

“So much dinner and so many glasses of wine are in store for you, Madame.” He pulled away, grasping her little hand tightly, the eyes of DC society be damned for now. He’d reserved a private room, but he didn’t care who saw them on their way to it (and he noticed several unfamiliar but attentive eyes follow them through the dining hall--clearly they recognized him); he felt an encroaching abandon, as though nothing and no one could tear him away from her now; let everyone see her, let everyone see them together, and he would do whatever it took to protect her, to sway his immovable mother to good graces when the time came. But first, this evening. First, Kenzie.  _Angel._

He saw Kenzie’s hesitant face as the waiter helped her into her seat; she saw the exhaustive wine menu and an overwhelmed look came into her eyes at its massive length.

“May I order the wine?” He asked her, his eyes on her, gentle.

“Yes, please.” He wanted to soothe the worry from her; he wanted her to feel comfortable to let her guard down, to be herself with him. Wine menus could get fucked if they made her doubt herself. Anything and anyone could get fucked, as far as he was concerned, if they looked at her the wrong way.

“ _Château Trotte Vieille_  Bordeaux, please,” he murmured to the waiter after he perused its exhaustive length for a short minute; he’d looked over this particular menu many times before. He watched Mackenzie’s wide, beautiful eyes glance down at the menu, searching for the wine he’d chosen; they widened further and he knew she’d noticed the price tag. The waiter (a tall young man with a thin face, a long nose and close-cropped hair) nodded, eyeing Mackenzie very briefly with badly-veiled interest; Duncan could see that the waiter recognized him as well, and was clearly curious about the beauty sitting with him in a private room. A less observant person would have perhaps missed the look, but Duncan was almost preternatural in his ability to read others; a useful talent he’d learned from watching his mother and listening to her through years of gains on political stages. He wondered how much a future reporter would pay the man to give them information about Duncan Shepherd’s date at Le Diplomate on a recent Sunday in May, the details of Mackenzie’s appearance, the coy Instagram shots that could potentially materialize of them later. He could see the headlines on the gossip websites now.  _Duncan Shepherd Spotted Arriving and Leaving with Political Enemy’s Daughter From Intimate Dinner At Posh French Restaurant._

_I don’t care_ , he thought, staring into Kenzie’s eyes, which met his with a mixture of hesitance and open avidity, and that crushing feeling around his heart recurred. He reached out and took her hand.  _I just don’t care. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this woman mine._

“$245. I saw that. Oh my god,” Kenzie breathed, holding his fingers tightly. “That’s the money I spend on groceries in a month.” Nervousness had seeped into her eyes as she stared at him, her mouth open in a kind of stunned realization.

“Kenzie. It’s nothing. My mother spends that much every week on cold-pressed juice.”

“Duncan.”

“You’ll love it. It’s wonderful. It’s perfect with the  _duck a l’orange_ , which is, by the way, better here than the duck I’ve had in Paris.”

“Duncan.”

“Kenzie.”

“I feel strange.”

She was biting her lip, and her eyes looked frightened. They pierced his heart; he ached to soothe her again, ached to calm her.

“Mackenzie, listen to me. Please don’t. This is my life. I understand that it may be strange to you, but I will do whatever I can to make you feel more comfortable, more at ease. Anything. Don’t be afraid, Kenzie. I want you here. I want you to be here with me right now, and no one else. Mackenzie Stone, _I don’t care about anything else right now except being here with you.”_

He watched her face, her eyes growing shiny with the tears hiding behind them, and her little mouth trembled ever-so-slightly, a strange smile falling over her features. She sniffed a little, and a single tear fell from her eye, dropping down onto the immaculate white tablecloth, spreading into a damp orb. He grasped her hand desperately, his thumb rubbing against her wrist. “ _Baby_ ,” he whispered. “ _It’s okay_.”

She breathed, silently, her overwhelmed expression clinging to the certainty in his blue eyes; he watched her throat and the rise of her collarbones, wanting to press his lips against her there; he watched the whiteness of the skin between the plunging neckline of her extraordinarily beautiful dress. And then her expression seemed to clear from what she saw in his face; she nodded a little, the smile trembling still but steadying for him. “Okay, baby,” she whispered. And he squeezed her hand, his smile widening to her, nodding back.

\----

The duck tasted even more wonderful tonight; it was simultaneously the best meal he’d ever had and the one he felt he’d remember the least, somehow; he could only think of and focus on her eyes and her hair and her throat and her gold headband adorned with moons and the tiny movements of her hands and fingers as she ate her bread or stabbed a forkful of spinach or a morsel of perfectly roasted duck or drank the (absolutely exquisite) vintage Bordeaux from her wine glass, catching the dim, romantic evening candlelight from their table in its reflection. He somehow felt he’d never seen another person so clearly and entirely before this night; she was a revelation, so real and so beautiful and her eyes were full of emotion and so open to him, it absolutely took his breath away. He watched her ease into the meal and into his words as they talked; she told him about her father, far away in LaLa land, writing about film, forgetting to send her birthday cards, about her best friend Claire (“shares her name with the president, oddly enough”), and the love she shared with her mother.  _And there we can agree_ , he’d said, and told her about his mother, too. “I know how she can seem,” he said, looking away, referring to Annette’s sharp television interviews and her well-chronicled contentions with the press, “but I love her deeply, and she loves me. That’s an unshakeable truth, and it gives me comfort in life.” Kenzie had nodded, understanding. “I feel the same way about my mother,” she had agreed. “She’s there for me when no one else is. She’s given me so much advice that has helped me survive; she’s been a guiding light to me. I admire her strength and fearlessness so much.” Throughout the meal and as they talked, they continued to reach for each other’s hands every now and then; Duncan pressing his thumb gently into circles in her palm, his hands trailing down the expanse of her slender fingers. She’d grasp his fingers one by one, caressing the shape of his knuckles, making him shiver. At one point as he gazed at her left hand in his between staring into her eyes ( _god, her eyes, I love them so much, like stars_ ), he wondered what it would look like with a ring from him adorning it. He blushed at the imagining; and then he wondered, quietly, what kind of ring she would love.  _A moonstone_ , he thought immediately, somehow sure right away, as though she’d told him herself.  _A moonstone, because she’s like the face of the moon to me, penetrating my spirit, exquisite and divine._  He kept the thought to himself, tucking it away to look at later, as she told him about her work as a journalist, how much it made her hope for and want to fight for a kinder, better world. His eyes clouded with her sincerity; he was shaken with a moment of doubt regarding the work he did for his mother, and he knew it was dark work, cloudy work, and not for the first time, he felt deeply conflicted, perhaps now more than he ever had, especially hearing her sincerity. “I feel as though I can’t say no to her, my mother is the only person who has always been there for me,” he murmured. The sympathy shone out from Mackenzie’s eyes, and he knew she did not judge him harshly; knew she understood his confusion.

“I’ve seen and felt how wonderful you are,” she said. “I feel it now. We can always work to be better, be kinder, be gentler. I think it’s something you do every day, little by little, work at like a sculptor chipping away at a stone. Eventually it becomes something extraordinary. But that’s from hundreds of days of tiny work. For me, working on a story is like that. A tiny chipping away to find the essence of truth in something. I think that’s what life is, really. Hundreds and hundreds of days of little work.”

“I want to try to do that with you, Kenzie. Work together like that, a little bit at a time, for hundreds of days.”

Her eyes settled into his. He watched her breathe out, slowly, setting her fork down, the velvet choker at her throat, its moon charm catching the light.

He said it before he lost his nerve. “Mackenzie. Would you...be with me? Would you be mine?”

“Duncan. Oh, my god. I…” Mackenzie trailed off, staring at him. Her shock seemed to extend, and she was quiet. Her eyes had taken on that greenish hue that startled him deeply again. Her soul, deep in thought, full of tangled emotion.

He bit his lip, his eyes darkening, and he looked down for a moment, grasped his wine glass, drank deeply. He set it down, slowly, carefully.

“I know...this all seems so sudden, so fast. But I feel something for you that I’ve never felt for anyone. I meant everything I said to you today. You’ve brought an ache into my heart. I want you. Not just in my bed. I want you in my life. I want  _you_ , Kenzie. All of you.”

The moment hovered, quieted. They regarded each other. He felt her eyes rove over him as soft, pulsing music played in the background of the room; down from his dark hair, thrown back, to his eyes, meeting hers with hope and desire, his lips ( _which would kiss you every day, kiss you always, Kenzie_ ), the fine sheen of ever-present stubble on his cheeks, the bob of his throat, the high collar of his dark shirt, the fall of his velvet blazer over his tall frame, down his arm and to his wrists, his silver Cartier watch shining against the candlelight, down his long hands, one resting against his thigh, the other hovering an inch away from hers on the table, index finger stretched. Light seemed to cascade behind her head, and he was reminded of the way she’d looked last night, like there was a halo around her head, golden and iridescent. It was as if he could see the outline of her soul, and it shook him to the core, again, trembling. He was bare under her gaze; he felt like she was looking into the essence of him, weighing him, deciding his fate. He waited. He had decided what he wanted, and had spoken it to her, and so at least he had had the courage to be honest.  _At least_ , he said to himself,  _I was brave in the sight of her wonder._

She lifted her head a little, and the light danced off her headband adorned with moons. She looked like a queen to him in that moment; like a Waterhouse priestess, throwing gold dust and magick into the night, and he was struck by her lovely, coiled energy, her power over him. She smiled at him, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds. It was blinding, overwhelming, filling him with her brightness, the beauty that shined out of her spirit.

“Yes,” she said, her voice steady, smooth,  _like honey_. “Yes, I will, Duncan. Yes.”

He grinned, grabbed onto her hand, leaned toward her, his joy immediate.

“On one condition.”

He stopped. “Anything, Mackenzie. Anything.”

“Be mine, too, Duncan Shepherd. Will you be mine?” A little laugh flitted through her words. He could see the joy in her eyes, and it moved him deeply.

He breathed a sigh of relief; it felt like a weight was lifting off his heart, like wings were beating inside his ribcage.

“ _Kenzie_ , yes. Yes, a hundred times, yes. I’m yours.”

\-----

They were anxious to be alone together, then; Duncan ached for her, and she whispered “ _let’s go_ ”, draining her wine glass, the flash of her white throat setting his nerves on edge; Duncan had hurriedly passed his Black AmEx to the waiter, who brought it back to him with a swiftness that seemed almost supernatural. The evening seemed to be pushing them toward their private rendezvous; Duncan no longer wanted anyone else to be near them. He wanted her to himself, this divine goddess who had said she would be his; he still couldn’t grasp that she had accepted him, still felt terrified she’d disappear. He wondered if that feeling would ever fade, or if he’d always feel that fear, that ache for her, already dreading the moment she would leave.

Duncan had texted Samuel and as they practically ran from the entrance of the brightly-lit facade of the buzzing brasserie, their hands clasped together tightly, not noticing the eyes of some of the diners following them this time, not caring, he was struck with relief to see the BMW quietly humming on the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the lamps along the sidewalk. He opened the door for Mackenzie, catching her in his arms for a moment, pressing his lips into the soft space between her ear and her jaw, achingly. She leaned into him, her little body folding into his arms, sucking the air from his lungs, intoxicating.  _Angel baby._  His own. She flitted away from him, disappearing into the backseat, and he followed her eagerly;  _Then I must be thy lady; but I know / When thou hast stolen away from a fairy land._..the line hovered in his subconscious. She was like Titania, queen of the fae, scattering gold, her laugh making flowers burst into bloom, and as he pressed into her in the backseat, the flowers bloomed in his mind and his senses as he kissed her and her little mouth opened against him, her hair tangled in his fingers.

\-----

When they’d finally arrived back at his penthouse, she hushed him when he tried to press into her again, impatient for her, his arms around her back, under her shoulder blades, trying to be delicate, afraid he might break her apart with his urgency. “I want a little bit more wine, baby, get me some?” The way she said  _baby_ , into his mouth, caused heat to pool in the bottom of his stomach. “Kenzie,  _baby_...” he groaned into her softly, he couldn’t stop. Last night felt like it had happened a hundred days ago--he was starving for her again. He shook his head a little, dizzy, loathe to let go of her.

She grabbed the sides of his velvet jacket with her little fingers; “get it for me baby, I  _want_  it,” and he loved the pout on her lips, loved it like he loved her eyelashes, her glowing cheeks, her sweet smell, her insistence. “Kiss me first,” he begged, and he knew he was begging, and he didn’t care, he was lost in her. She pressed her open mouth into his bottom lip, sucking it carefully, slowly, and he pressed his hands into her breasts, trying to hold back the rough desire he felt, the skin between held in her plunging neckline, feeling her hot skin there. “There,” she breathed, releasing him. “Now, baby, give me what I want.”

“Mhmm,” he murmured, his head swimming, letting go of her, aching. He looked back as he moved through his vast living room with its lush carpet and low leather couch, trailing his finger absently along its back, watching her watch him ( _with eyes ringed in gold_ ) move into his study, where he kept an opulently stacked wine rack beside the standing bar. He pulled a Chablis Grand Cru from the middle rack of the temperature-controlled glass case (a bottle worth an absurd amount of money--at least a grand--but his head swam and he couldn’t care at all, money meant nothing to him right now next to her) and as he turned, he saw that she had followed him, boots cast aside somewhere, on soft, bare feet, into his study behind him, hair shimmering, the gold of her glimmering. She pouted. “I wanted to scare you,” she whispered, eyes glowing.

“You look like an angel,” he replied, the bottle dangling carelessly from his fingers. She smiled, turning, looking at him over her shoulder, the dress falling in the light, beautiful beyond words to him. She turned her face towards the wall that faced his desk ( _her hair in waves of gold_ ); and she gasped, her eyes falling over the huge expanse of  _The Youth of Bacchus_. She paused for a moment, staring, and then took two hesitant, soft steps toward it, clearly in awe. He came up behind her, setting the bottle to the side of his polished mahogany desk, folding his arms around her waist, nuzzling his mouth into her neck.

“Is this real?” she whispered, leaning into him.

“Yes,” he murmured, kissing under her ear, kissing the incline of her neck falling into her shoulders. “It’s real. It’s called  _The Youth of Bacchus_. My mother gave it to me when I was 18.”

“God. Duncan. It’s so beautiful. It’s beautiful beyond words.”

“No,” he whispered into her ear, kissing it, capturing the lobe in his lips, “you are, Kenzie, you are, only you…”

He turned her face to him, kissing her deeply, his tongue in her mouth, her scent crashing into him, and his arms turned her so he could grasp her hips, and he lifted her, light as air, onto the edge of his desk, her little elegant feet suspended several feet in the air, dangling over its edge. She pressed her hands back onto its smooth surface, and he leaned into her, tasting her, hands running over her in ardent waves, whispering into her, “ _angel, beloved, baby_ ” and he moved his head down, pushing up the velvet folds of her flowing dress, cut to her body like it was part of her, finding her panties (wet against her for him again,  _god, he loved it so much_ ), these ones made of soft lace, and his hands pulled them off her, hurried, impatient, and he buried his mouth on her clit, sucking with urgency, and she threw her head back, “ _oh my god, Duncan, fuck, babyyy,_ ” and he saw her eyes floating back and forth between him and the gigantic painting against the wall of his study, caught up in its beauty, caught up in him, and her eyes clouded with green and gold, as he worked his mouth against her, her hand finding the back of his head, holding him flush to her sweetness, and as she came, crying out with a sound that threatened to overwhelm him in the crashing wave of his desire, he saw a tear fall from her eyes, catching the low, soft light, and he thought about god again, thought that maybe there was something in the universe that had brought her to him, into his arms, and he was full of joy.

\----

He led her into the bathroom, the joy still dancing in his heart, inside his blue eyes. “Keep your eyes closed,” he said, and she giggled, clutching his hand, feeling carefully along the doorway with the other one, bare feet padding onto the cold, seamless stone tiles. She stopped; he pressed the fingers of his right hand, hot with his want, along the white skin between her breasts where the dress fell down into the void of her, against her neck, thumb trailing over her bottom lip.

“Okay, baby, open them.”

She opened her eyes wide and gasped again; all along the edges of his claw-foot tub there were roses, so many roses, dozens and dozens of roses, their stems stripped of their thorns and woven together in a tapestry, all the deep carmine red of her lips last night when she’d kissed him under the night sky for the first time; handfuls of petals floated over the surface of the water, steaming into the air, and the bath itself was surrounded by white pillar candles, illuminating the otherwise-dark bathroom with a soft, melting glow. He watched her delighted face with relief; “do you like it?” he asked, unable to keep the hopeful, wistful edge from his voice.

“Oh, Duncan, I love it. I love it so much. It’s wondrous. It’s  _divine_.”

_You are, you are, you are_ , he thought, his mind repeating it over and over, the only prayer he ever wanted to recite.  _Kenzie, Kenzie, Kenzie._

He watched her, aching, in the candlelight. She gazed at him, her face aglow. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Undress me.”

He leaned into her, desperately; his hands found the zipper at her back, pulling it down with soft urgency as she ran her fingers along his neck and his chest and against the rise of his crotch, pressing carefully and insistently. He moaned, shivering, pushing the heaven-soft sleeves down her arms, feeling her skin with his fingers, relishing the way her breasts, nipples hard, emerged from the cupped embrace of her plunging bodice, his mouth on her neck again. Her dress fell to the ground in a soft heap; she stood before him and he thought of another Bouguereau painting, its beauty flashing in his mind yet paling to her before him in the flesh, one called  _Evening Mood_ , the white-skinned nymph of twilight hovering over soft waves, her head softly turned in ecstasy, a crescent moon hanging behind her bowing head.

“You look like the moon,” he said, wonderingly, as her hands pulled at his jacket and pushed it away and her demanding fingers undid his shirt and unbuckled his belt, pulling the zipper of his pants down, pulling out his hard, aching length, her mouth open, her face looking up to him, her eyes impatient, her moon headband and black choker, hugging her neck like a lover ( _him, her lover_ ) the only things she now wore. He loved that she was wearing her adorning jewelry again, like last night, as they were about to fuck; he loved the artistry of her, unpretentious, unstudied, gold and soft and starry and  _his_ , his own, for she’d accepted him, and she was his now, and he was hers, and that was all he knew and all he wanted to know. Her hands drifted over the length of his cock, languid but concentrated, and he pulled away from her touch, leading her to the steaming bathtub, the roses making way for them as he pulled her down into it with him, pulling her on top of him again, loving the feeling of her body hovering above him that way. She reached down into the hot, almost scalding water, its heat causing goosebumps to rise on both of them; gripped the length of his cock again, fingers grazing his sensitive head, her face hovering over his, her mouth almost kissing his, but not quite, her breath cascading into him and she moaned as she stroked him and he moaned into her in return, lost in her, his impossibly blue eyes falling into the night of her, “ _Mackenzie, baby, that feels so fucking good, you’re as beautiful as an angel, oh god, Kenzie, I love you-_ -”, and the roses clung to the sides of her white skin, the steam that rose off the water enshrining her, and her mouth finally clashed into his, stifling his ardent admission, and he thought again that he could die and be content in the death, content because his last moments had belonged to her.

“ _Come for me this time, baby love, come for me, okay_?” She murmured these sweet words into him, and he nodded, his brow furrowed, completely lost in her touch and her voice; she stopped the firm stroke of her hand around his hardness, and moving her hips, eased down onto him until he was buried in her, gasping, and she moved again, grinding down on him, causing him to stutter “ _fu-fu-uu-ckk_ ” into her neck, against the softness of her chin, into her skin, and she said “ _I love you too, I’m yours baby, all yours, come for me_ ,” and he couldn’t stop it, his release was so deep and so consuming that his moan bled into a wild cry that he tried to stifle between the space of her breasts where her dress had plunged, showing her heart to him under the shadow of her delicate bones, and he couldn’t believe that he could have ever felt so good, clutching her little body against him, her soul held in his hands this way. She was his, she had said yes, she was his, this angel, an angel, she loved him and heaven had fallen to earth, and he was holding it, _her_ , she was heaven, heaven in his hands, heaven on his lips,  _heaven, heaven, heaven..._


End file.
